28 Solarflares: Volume II
by Crystal Shekeira
Summary: G1. More short stories; some attempt to follow the 28 guidelines, others are just tales that happen to pop into my head. Canon characters occasionally appear.
1. Falling Down

**Author's Note:**_ As with the original 28 fics, most of these could comfortably fit within the Chronicles timeline. Those that could not will be labeled as "non-canon". There will be those requisit "naughty" or "smut" fics ... because I need my entertainment, yo. If you're offended by inter-Transformer relations and/or would rather see your character, or favorite canon character, getting in the groove ... well, my work's not for you. -grins- -- The "three things" that I've weaved into the tales were based off of a suggested by fellow ficcer LadyStarcream. Those you see here were all suggested by my friends, who should be certified bonkers. ;)_

1. Falling Down  
**Gryphon, tankard and key. A glass beaker, a batch of a raven's DNA, and a notoriously uncooperative paper clip.  
**_Suggested by: Eclipse and Sai_

_Click_, went the key in the assistant's hand. In an age where the simple lock-and-key was dominated by touch-pads, retina-scans and finger-print analyzers, it was rather refreshing (if troublesome) to see that someone still had a sense of humor.

"Dontcha think it's cool that Dr. Fujiyama's finally letting us back into his lab?" Bluestreak chattered to her right. "I mean, he was real nice to Optimus an' all after the Nightbird incident, but communications between him an' us were always limited – an' concise."

"'Concise'?" Skyfire teased, nudging the silver gunner in the door wing with one large elbow. The smaller, younger 'bot looked up, mildly affronted.

"Yeah," he groused, gathering himself together before turning back to Solarflare. They ducked the overhang and found themselves in the large theatre that was the good doctor's laboratory.

Politely, the grey femme swiveled her wrist, indicating that the gunner continue – not that she was really listening. It wasn't to be rude, for in the beginning, she'd tried to take in all that Bluestreak spouted, but it proved too much. So she affected a listening posture and nodded in the appropriate places. Long association with the gunner let her catch the slight change in cadence when he was being serious.

A tall, raven-haired woman with huge canted eyes wearing a deep green business suit met them at the top of the stairs; she bowed gracefully, the sunlight glittering off of the jade sticks in her bun. "Greetings. I am Motoko, Dr. Fujiyama's daughter. My father is busy at the moment, so he asked that you bid wait in the foyer. It shouldn't take too long." With an elegant hand, she indicated a long bench cast in concrete and set under a beautiful traditional tapestry.

"Not at all, Ms. Motoko," Skyfire replied for the group. The doctor's daughter bowed again and walked down the railed staircase to the main lab below, leaving the three Autobots alone with a very preoccupied receptionist.

When they were seated, Flare looked about. She'd heard the tale of the Nightbird several times in the past; it was a story of how the Autobots had soured one human relationship, not something that occurred often. While Bluestreak droned on about his encounter with the female-shaped robot, Skyfire pulled out a reader; Solarflare busied herself with admiring the rich Japanese décor: vases, rugs, lovely bamboo arrangements. The tapestry behind her brushed against her struts and she swiveled with a low grinding sound in order to look at it better: Rich and bold, a gryphon stretched out across the sky, one foreclaw outstretched to snag the tail of a three-toed dragon. Above them rose a gold-embroidered Phoenix, brilliant in the pure blue sky.

Flare's knowledge of Japanese mythology was limited, but she was certain there was no gryphon involved in the Land of the Rising Sun. She opened her mouth to ask the receptionist when there was a slight _ping_ – and something thin and metallic landed on her tongue. Seized with surprise, she swallowed, only to have the object lodge in her "windpipe" – the area of her metallic throat that housed her voicebox.

Optics wide, Flare coughed; aluminum rattled in her throat. Old, near-forgotten human instincts brought her hands to her throat and she doubled over, trying to force the thing out by gravity.

_"Get it out!"_ she cried over their commlink. _"Get it out!"_

Brought to full alert by their comrade's sudden, jerky motions, both Skyfire and Bluestreak leapt to their feet. The receptionist's panicked shouts in English and Japanese didn't help them as they tried to assess the situation. Blathering, the poor woman ran around her desk, her wild actions upsetting a slim glass beaker crowned with long-stemmed lilies. The crash was barely registered, as was the woman, who forgot everything else in order to clean up the gritty, discolored water that flowed down her desk.

"Flare!" Skyfire bellowed in her right audio as the femme went down on her knees, trying to stuff her fist into her oral orifice and failing miserably. "What's wrong?"

Though she was in no danger of actually choking, the sensation was extremely unpleasant, and it would, eventually, interfere with spoken communication. The idea that something foreign was rattling around her insides was utterly discomforting; the femme gave up trying to swallow her fingers and tried hacking instead. _"Something – lodged,"_ she managed to convey, all her attention focused upon ridding the object from her tract.

"Hold on, Flare," Bluestreak gallantly proclaimed, and hit her with full-force atop her neck guard.

Pain shot through every circuit board she possessed. Still, the fragging piece of whatever wouldn't budge. Gaping, she started to tell the silver mech to lay off her neck when the second blow came. It leveled her and she slid against the slick tile to the ground, flat.

Dimly, she heard Skyfire telling Bluestreak to, kindly, back off. The huge Valkyrie slipped his hands under her arms and propped her up. "Open wide, Flare."

Dropping her hands from about her neck, Solarflare watched the scientist retract his right hand; in its place, a thin pair of Autobot-sized tweezers appeared. _"Just … get it out,"_ she managed, opening her mouth.

Memories of the dentist chair were cruelly squashed and she fought a false-gag reflex as Skyfire slid the tweezers past her dental plates, over the back of her tongue and down her slim, hollow throat. "Tilt back now, girl, that's it," the Valkyrie soothed, using his free hand to manually tip her chin back. "Hmmm …"

_I don't like how that sounds_, Flare thought, rolling her optics to better glimpse the spacefarer's facial features. _"This is going to interfere with my digestion …"_

"Hardly," Skyfire returned smoothly, pulling his hand back and making a few quick switches to the myriad components he carted around in his wrist. With a penlight now topping the tweezers, Skyfire bid her open wide once more; this time, she was fairly prepared, but that didn't help the memories. To occupy her mind while her friend fished around in her gullet, Solarflare tried to focus her optics on the receptionist. The poor, harried woman had finished mopping up the water from the beaker and was now reorganizing the bouquet in a German tankard, of all things.

_This gives a whole new spin on the term "fisting",_ Flare thought idly, feeling every scrape and pinch of the tweezers. She had to bite back a giggle, almost chomping on Skyfire's fingers in an effort to stem the laughter. The Valkyrie gave her a rather odd, concerned look, but shrugged and closed his optics, going by feel alone.

With a loud "AH-HA!" Flare felt him seize on the troublesome object and pull it free. Air flowed freely to her ventilators, and a system that had begun to overheat in stress was immediately cooled. With a long hacking cough, Flare cleared her vocalizer and looked up at Skyfire. The tall white mech was adamantly studying the cause of all her pain.

"I believe this belongs to you, ma'am," he said, reaching out with a long arm to present the wide-eyed receptionist with a … paperclip.

"Honored Autobots," came the liquid voice of Motoko, "my father is ready for you to help him transport the enhanced raven DNA … Oh, my!" she exclaimed as she crested the stairs and looked upon the scene: a grey, winged femme on the floor; a tall white mech with pinchers for a hand; a bewildered silver mech; and an embarrassed receptionist hovering over a tankard full of lilies. "What happened?"

Skyfire paused. "Well, ma'am … we had a rather uncooperative paperclip …"


	2. Daydreaming

3. Daydreaming  
**Puppy, poker chips, bouquet of flowers.  
**_Suggested by Tiamat1972_

Sweet summer breezes blew through the little valley, whispering caresses against the verdant grass and stirring the delicate violets that poked their tiny heads in patches along the hill. Against this vibrant pallet of color was a swatch of grey, head bent towards the bubbling river at her feet. Her attention transfixed by whatever moved therein and she did not notice the forest green mech who was walking towards her, his large feet stepping around the violets.

Hound was loathe to disturb Solarflare in her quiet serenity; he stopped twenty feet from her resting spot, the heads of the daffodils he carried in one thick hand brushing against his back plates. She was no Cybertronian beauty, this grey-black-white eagle-femme; her facial planes were sharp, but not too severe. Built short and armor tailored to weigh on the light side, her pyramidal feet were often the first thing people noticed, other than her impressive wingspan. No, she would not win any Tower beauty contests, but what made her pretty was her expressiveness: the cant of crest and head, the mobile mouth and dancing gold optics.

Was he enamored with her? Certainly; ever since he brought her to the Ark all those years ago.

The wind blew gently against his back, plucking free a petal of one alabaster-white daffodil and spinning it towards the femme by the river. Avian-like, her head jerked up, pulled from her reverie by the motion; she spun on the balls of her feet, taloned hand outstretched – though no Decepticons remained to ambush her. Instantly, her facial planes softened when she saw who it was. Wordlessly, she crooked a claw, beckoning him to join her on the hillock.

Deep inside his chassis, Hound's Energon pump jumped, did a little jiggle. Carefully, he tightened his grip on the daffodils and made for her side. Flare shifted and smiled. "What brings you here?" she asked with a laugh as he positioned himself at her side.

Hound looked at her, into her golden optics, at the sunlight gleaming off of her onyx tri-fold crest. The femme's sharp cheeks were stretched in an affable grin, charcoal lips pulled wide to showcase her dental plates.

With a deep breath to cool his rapidly-heating body, Hound extended the hand he'd held behind his back. "I found these on the other side and thought you'd like them. I know how you hate roses."

A dew-covered black hand, the droplets shining on the polished metal, reached forward to take them from his thick-fingered paw. Brilliant optics met his over the silk-soft petals, the buds and blooms as large in her grasp as baby's-breath in a human's. But their size did not seem to matter to Solarflare.

"Why … thank you," she breathed, tilting her head so that she was looking up at him, though their bodies were at level with each other. "You didn't have to."

The green tracker hummed inside with barely-contained pleasure. "Lovely daffodils for a lovely lady," he told her, shoulders hunched to keep her optics in line with his.

"You're too sweet," she replied, brow ridge drawing low over her optics. Water droplets clung to the tips of her taloned left hand as she lifted it from the dewy grass at her side to gently brush his grey cheek.

"F-Flare …"

All but giving voice to a full-throated purr, the grey femme gently set the daffodils aside and lifted her lips, breezing by his cheek. "Mmm, Hound?"

Reserve broken, the tracker's well-concealed humming poured forth and he raised his hand to touch her shoulder strut. Instantly, Solarflare melted against his armor, her hands slipping over his thighs to curl around towards his back. Sparkling tremors gave way to a full-mech response from the gentle Jeep. All of his dreams were coming true: she was in his arms and they were alone, but for the bubbling brook and the discarded blooms of the daffodils.

Carefully, he lowered his head and touched his lip components to hers. She tasted of dew and pure spring water, scented of sweet breezes and the attar of daffodils. And, just like the flower, she parted before him, hooking her talons into his shoulder plates and dragging him atop her on the sparkling bank.

Ardor, powerful and persistent, tugged at his cortex even as her taloned hands wormed their way into the creases in his chest plate. They slid under his undercarriage, brushing against sensitive metal. Slowly, the pressure built inside his head, thrumming through his Energon pump; soft as a breeze, trying to control his desire, he broke contact with her lips and ran them down her cheek, into her throatlatch. Under him, Flare moaned, her talons digging deeper. But the pain was sweet, all he wanted.

He trailed his lips across her chest, imprinting every curve, every angle of her raptor's body into his central processor. With careful, gentle sweeps of his fingers, he found the recessed plate in her right side, tucked inconspicuously under her grey "ribcage". His own connecting cord had long since broken free of its casing to graze at his hip plate, waiting. With the removal of this plate, he could finally join with her, bonded in an ecstasy that transcended body and spark.

"Hound …"

Her hands seized him, eagerness wild in her optics. "Hound …"

The green mech shifted, hands reaching around for his cord, shuddering in the pleasure such contact brought to his cortex.

"Hound …"

Against him, she arced, scrabbling, scrambling for completion, her optics shuttered as she breathed his name over and over again. Triumphant, he pressed himself against her grey body …

* * *

"Hound. Hey, pal." 

Something was licking at his large green foot, persistently. Hound groaned, cracking one optic and focusing on the large but lithe black cyberhound pup that was poking its sensitive nose around his leg before moving to the tracker's side.

"Hm. Best put yourself together, my friend," Mirage continued, the words overlaid with his rich laugh. "Which one caught your fancy?"

Time and reality slowly spun into its proper position in Hound's cortex. Embarrassed, he stuffed his cord back into its holding and followed Mirage's gaze across the lawn of Autobot City to where several lean femmes were playing a modified game of volleyball. "All of them," he replied as blithely as he could, with as much of his usual charm and "country boy" attitude as he could gather around him. Stretching, the tracker popped a few stiff servos before relaxing against the tree that had been his backrest for the past hour.

Again, Mirage laughed, the tall, lithe gentlemech nodding approvingly at his best friend's choices. "I've come to collect you for the poker game," he told the green Jeep. "Here." From subspace, the spy produced a small red velvet pouch and tossed it into Hound's lap. "Your chips."

The pouch, loosely tied, spilled three brightly colored poker chips onto the tracker's stomach and torso plate. "Thanks," he replied, scooping the chips up and letting them fall back into the pouch. "I'll be there in a minute."

The Elite spy smiled, nodded, and called the cyberpup to heel. "Not too long … as nice a view as you have here." And he winked, walking off across the verdant green grass, the pup bounding along. Once out of sight, Hound turned the pouch over and over, looking up and across the hill towards the City proper, to the Comm Tower where a grey femme stood, perched on the lip below the hexagonal base, watching the horizon.

With a sigh, he stuffed his daydreams into the back of his cortex and once again accepted reality for what it was.


	3. Angry

21. Angry  
**Feather, star, staff.  
**_Suggested by: DargonXKS_

Before the great Decepticon surge and Unicron's arrival, this chamber had been reserved for accommodations, accreditations and reward ceremonies. On the simple raised dais was a podium, flags of the many human nations, and embedded into the wall, the Autobot symbol. Today, as for the past week, there was no podium, no flags; two simple black swatches covered Primus' face in mourning. Flanked by two staff-wielding honor guards, lay the body of Optimus Prime, grey and lifeless, upon a plain catafalque.

For weeks after the Decepticon assault on Autobot City, Solarflare and her comrades had worked day and night, often going without recharging for days on end, to repair the monumental damage. Little news reached them during that time, save the triumph of Rodimus Prime over Unicron and the Decepticons' subsequent deep-space exile. But now that events had spiraled back to normal, the Autobots could properly mourn the passing of the greatest of leaders Cybertron had even seen.

A public ceremony for all of Earth and those of Cybertron had been held at the beginning of the week, with thousands filing past Optimus, touching the huge black rifle that had led them to more than one victory. To touch his body had been denied them; that honor was left to those who were part of his innermost circle: the Ark warriors, his most trusted lieutenants.

Solarflare had just come from the launching ceremony of the warriors who had been brutally murdered as their ship had come into Earth's orbit. Stalwart, unflappable Prowl; strong, determined Brawn; powerful, impatient Windcharger; brilliant Wheeljack; solid Ironhide; and Ratchet … her … father. Where she had found the strength to stand in formation and listen to the recitations of their greatest achievements, she didn't know; what she _did_ know was that her heart broke several times over as Flamestrike quietly sobbed over her bondmate's body.

The avian femme would have liked more time to think on the past month's events, but she had a schedule to follow. Everyone and their creator wanted to make sure that they got their allotted time with Optimus' body before he, too, was sent into space on his final journey.

Ultra Magnus himself stood guard at the entrance to the chamber. The barest of acknowledgements flickered between them as the City Commander opened the door for the smaller grey femme. Slicking her fluttering wings tightly to her back, Flare gathered what remained of her strength and stepped into the chamber. Sombre, subtle lighting assailed her optics, the sensors whirling gently to adjust. Against the back wall, on either side of the catafalque, the honor guards' heads turned as one, their staffs rising slightly in their hands before they recognized the comm officer. To them, Flare gave a nod of her head, one that she would not confer upon Magnus.

Slowly, she crossed the crimson carpeted floor, past the lines of bright blooms, some whose buds were long gone and were yet to be replaced. A small stool was sitting before the corpse, on the dais. Before that short step, Flare paused, the malleable metal of her throat tightening at the reality of the situation.

_Oh, Optimus …_

She took the seat, looking over a metal form who used to be infused with such vitality, compassion and strength. A body that was now more grey than she was – except her grey was one of life; this was death.

The corners of her optics twitched as she looked over the wounds First Aid had refused to close up for the viewings. It was not something Optimus would have wanted – for such sacrifices to be glossed over, prettied up for innocent eyes. There were the long scratches and burn marks made by laser fire across his battlemask; here and there, along his upper torso, bits of the City still embedded. Dents, paint scratches, missing bits of metal … then, the fatal wound. Lips trembling, Flare reached across the Prime's huge body to touch the ragged edges of blown metal, the tips appearing to be soldered.

_Why … why did you have to die, Optimus?_ she cried, taloned fingertips leaving the huge hole in his side. _Of all of us, you were invincible, defying all the odds, rising from the chaos to lead us home._

Her hand trailed down his arm and took up the huge, lifeless fingers in her own. Overwhelmed, Flare gave a huge, wracking sob and touched crest to the death-grey knuckles.

_Cry_! she commanded her system … _CRY_!

But no matter how hard she willed, there was absolutely no fluid left in her system; all the washer liquid had run dry at the other ceremony. She could heave, hack and rock all she wanted, but there would be no twin streams to give vent to her overwhelming grief.

_Damn you, Hot Rod. Slag you and your impulsiveness._ Anger, bright and hot, welled up in her sorrow-wracked chest plate, all pointed to the newest Prime. Tightly, she clutched at the lifeless hand locked in her own, slowly shaking from side to side.

"Comm Officer Solarflare."

_We need you. We need you to see the triumphs that were accomplished in your honor, for you. They're gone, Optimus, Megatron is off Cybertron. We have the advantage back. We need you to lead us towards the final victory._

"Comm Officer?"

_It shouldn't have been this way. Is this what you get for giving me my life, Optimus? It's because of you that I live and that I fight for you. … We've always fought for you – _you_ are the Autobot cause, the Autobot symbol. You are truth, hope, victory … peace. Without you, where will we go? What will we do?_

"What will we do!"

"Comm Officer, I'm sorry, but your time is up. If you have a token, you'd best leave it now. Lieutenant Springer is scheduled next."

The voice of one of the guard finally wormed its way into her grief-addled cortex. Slowly, Solarflare released the hand she'd been so desperately clutching, willing with all her spark to infuse its shell with vibrant life. "Yes … yes … token," she muttered, half to herself. Sliding leadenly off the stool, she turned away from the body and reached into subspace to pull a large grey, black-tipped pinion feather.

"You have been the greatest person I have ever had the privilege to know," she whispered, turning back around and placing the Harpy Eagle's feather atop the grey chest of Optimus Prime. _May Primus help us with the one who now carries your Matrix_, she silently added, giving the body one last, forlorn look before leaving the chamber through the opposite door.

A keen, angry and sad at the same time, echoed the grounds, lifting to the stars, who passed no judgment.


	4. Lonely

15. Lonely  
**Arrows, autumn, antler.  
**_Suggested by: Illucian_

A fine blanket of leaves covered the ground of the abandoned cemetery; most crunched underfoot, though a few were late enough in falling to react to her passing without a sound. Solarflare carefully stepped around crumbling granite and marble headstones, danced sideways when her gold toe-tip grazed over a military plaque long-overgrown with weeds. Sadness was heavy in her Energon pump for the bones that resided here, once carefully-tended, once lovingly visited. Whispered memories and fond recollections danced among the stripped trees, no more substantial than the wind. Beneath her feet, the ground had long since given to the sky the last tears – spilled more than a hundred years ago. Perhaps in a hundred more years, this place of final resting would become desolate, but now, it was merely forlorn.

Those who had come to pay their respects were no better off – fading flesh and crumbling bones themselves, lying unloved and unmourned in their own faraway graves. Land such as this was a commodity, even with the colonization of other worlds with the Autobots' aid. They were still considered sacred, but Flare had heard tales of how older cemeteries had been exhumed in order to make way for advancing developments.

Bending down, Flare scraped the accumulation off of another military plaque, this one embossed with the combined sigils for the Marines and the Autobots: a hero from one battle in a long war. The simple eagle, globe and anchor spoke of how old this cemetery actually was – for at the turn of the twenty-first century, much of America's military might had been combined to form the Earth Defense Command, or EDC.

_You could spend days here, just tending the graves_, she thought sadly. _But you don't have the time._

Indeed, there was final packing to be done, before she, Mirage, Spectrum and Illusion departed Earth for their new Tower in Iacon, on Cybertron. The Autobot presence on Earth was in the last stages of their fifty-year phase-out. That was about how long it took to get Cybertron back in order after the decisive Autobot victory in 2200.

_And you promised Raj you wouldn't be too long … though he said I could take as much time as I needed_. A rueful smile, intermixed with faded memories of another time, graced her charcoal lips. _He really wants to be "home"._

Two hundred years ago, she had refused to set foot in this cemetery, to even come within a hundred yards of its gracefully-arched black gates. But, she had to – for this would possibly be the last time she'd ever be in this area again.

Distant honking, growing louder by the moment, pulled Flare from her ruminations. Tipping her head skyward, she watched as two arrows of Canadian geese winged stalwartly onward to their winter grounds. Folding her arms over her chestplate, the grey femme considered the similarities: _They have two homes – just as I will. But, for me, I will probably never return to my natal lands._

Lowering her chin, Solarflare cast her golden-optic'd gaze over the cemetery, scanning the neat rows of stones, shrubs and forgotten trees. She caught sight of the small, dead shrub that Mirage said marked the Michaels' family plot. As always, a sense of vertigo assailed her cortex when she acknowledged that two of her existed at the same time – the human body that had birthed her soul, and the living metal that now housed it. _That body is gone_, she affirmed, tucking her chin into her neckguard and covering the distance between the points with relative ease. _You were Alina Michaels … now you are Solarflare Ligier._

Still, such positive thinking did not dim the rising emotion as she took in the stark lettering on the basalt headstone. There were her human parents' birth and death dates, her brother's … and her own, so horribly short in comparison to the 80- and 90-years that the others had lived.

There was a sparse patch in the grass, to the right of the large stone. Folding her legs carefully around the surrounding tombstones, Flare bent down and gently scraped away the years, revealing a faded and elementally-damaged picture of her human self.

" 'Beloved Daughter … Taken too Soon. Forever in our Hearts'," Flare whispered. Laying her hand over the plaque, she gazed at the headstone, a sudden and powerful bolt of loneliness hitting her between the optics, boring through her cortex and down into her spark chamber. Faintly, she reeled, reaching out with her left hand to grip the crumbling onyx stone, to center herself in reality. At her spine, her wings flickered in and out, fluttering with the emotion that wracked her insides. A blue-tinged tear slowly slid from the corner of her right optic, snaking down one sharp-planed cheek. At the tip of her pointed chin, it rolled free, splashing onto her knee-spike before hitting the ground, taken up as quickly as a dying man drinks water.

_You are not alone!_ she tried to tell herself, but it was for naught. She could lose herself in the new world circumstance and choice had crafted for her, but the truth was here, in the dates and the graves. She, alone of all her family, lived – far beyond normal human comprehension. And she would continue to live, for as long as her parts hummed in sync, as strongly as her spark powered her body.

Another tear followed the same track as the first, catching the crack between spike and thigh joint. Shoulder struts heaving, wings rustling, Solarflare bent over the patch of earth that housed the remains of the family that had given her life, only to see it snatched away – never to know the truth.

A while later, exhausted, she rose, dusting off her lower legs with a mechanical gesture that she hoped would ground her emotions. With one final grip of stone, Solarflare turned her head towards the setting sun and began to walk out of the cemetery. As she moved towards the entrance, her right toe kicked something hidden by the tall grasses; it rose from the ground and clattered against a tumbled marker. Bending, she picked it up, turning the object over between two fingers.

Once, this horn graced a magnificent stag … probably long gone to the woods, or to death. Flare hazarded the former, for the reason it did not show signs of being nibbled at by insects or mice. Glancing towards the encroaching forest, she supposed that the original owner could still be around, perhaps sporting a bigger, better rack.

She took one step, then another, intending to take this antler with her – perhaps as a reminder. Then she paused. Looking at the shed bone, she shook her head. _No, you can't take this. For one, it's not practical … two, it belong here. And you, unlike this antler, doesn't belong here anymore._

With a sigh of longing, Flare resigned herself to logic. Turning, she walked back to the plot that housed her human family's remains and gently set the antler atop the tombstone. With a parting glance, she lifted her head to the sky and transformed, a grey shadow of life, rather than death, winging over the cemetery.

But a sad shadow nevertheless.


	5. Blind

2. Blind  
**Diet book, box cutter, broken coffeemaker—percolator style.  
**_Suggested by: Tyrrlin_

**A/N: Something of this nature might have taken place in the months before Alina/Flare died.**

It wasn't the piercing shaft of light that woke Alina up – rather, it was the annoying rattling coming from outside her bedroom window. Had she not been the victim of several malicious pranks in the past few weeks, she would have rolled over and tried to shut the light out with her pillow. Now the slightest shuffle of feet or the ringing of a bell (which she took for the ball in a can of spray paint) jolted her out of sleep. Needless to say, she had been dragging her feet into work more often than not. Her new co-workers assumed with the awe of those residing in Central City that she had been out on a mission with the Autobots.

Ha!

The mere thought of her, Alina, packing Eskimo gear and hauling her temperate hind end to the furthest reaches of the world was laughable. Not to mention dangerous.

Dragging the covers from her comfortable bed, Alina missed her slippers the first time around, but managed to haul them on with her second attempt. _Where's the red phone for the Ark?_ her sleepy mind wanted to know as she trudged through the living room, dragging her bathrobe on with one uncooperative hand.

Voices, young and male, were whispering outside her front door. With a groan, Alina reached up and dug her knuckles into her eyeballs. Anger was slowly burning the tiredness from her mind, and no doubt her appearance would shock a few into leaving. _Mirage, where are you when I need your invisible butt?_

As she lay her hand on the doorknob, the voices rose in an exclamation – which was followed by the sound of something being dropped on her cement porch and breaking.

"Dude! You broke it!"

"Nuh-uh … I just wanted to see if it was a present from the Autobots!"

"I told ya, it doesn't have a sym-bol …"

Alina wrenched her door open. Light, pure and uninhibited by clouds, stabbed painfully into her still-sleeping eyes. Biting her lip, Alina threw up her arm, trying to make out who was there by screening through her fingers. Three vague outlines swam before her – young boys, no older than twelve, clustered around a tall brown box. The bottom edge of the package was pushed inwards and one of the boys still had his hands on the sides. As she stepped out onto the porch, the boys took one look at her mussed-up black hair, drawn face and deep circles under her eyes – and bolted.

"_Stay offa my_ – oh, fuck it," she muttered, tottering blindly around the small space as the muted white of their soles scampered around the corner of her street, into safety. Gradually, her tired blue eyes grew accustomed to the light, though it did nothing for the stabbing headache along her sinuses. Her gaze darted into the bushes before she gathered her robe around her and stooped to check out what had been the object of interest. _Oh, they did_ not … Picking up the box, she backed up into her house and walked into the kitchen, placing the box on the top of her table. It took a moment and a stubbed finger before she found her box cutter. Slicing the package open, Alina dug through the company's receipt and bits of white plastic peanuts to the prize below.

_I paid eighty-five dollars – plus shipping – for this thing_, she thought miserably, lifting the percolating coffee pot into the air. Peanuts spilled onto the table and bounced along the surface, clinging to her robe. Insouciant, she brushed them off, not caring if she later stepped on one and took a fall. It was bad enough that her house had been painted orange and the neighborhood kids were constantly calling on her in hopes of seeing Mirage's pharaonic helm poking out over her ivy-covered fence. But this – _this_ was a present for her parents' anniversary next week.

Anger boiled in her brain; clenching the receipt so that it crumpled into a ball in her hand, Alina flung it the length of her kitchen. The coffee maker sat quietly on her table, non-judgmental. Despite the careful packaging, the pot was cracked; several small shards were missing, no doubt floating among the bottom peanuts. The brown plastic base was broken as well.

Before she could flop to the floor in defeat, the low, throaty purr of an engine flowed from her driveway. Immediately, Alina's head came up, flopping bedraggled hair into her eyes. She clawed herself free and made for the living room window. A red Pontiac sat idling behind her silver Cavalier – driverless.

"Hi!" the Pontiac greeted her as Alina shuffled out of her house; with a grimace, she squinted against the sunlight. Though still in carmode, the Autobot – whose name eluded her at the moment – showed his surprise at her appearance by the flicking of his windshield wipers. "Did I come at a bad time?"

_The last thing these guys need is to feel the need to baby-sit me_, she thought darkly. Instead, she tried shaking her hair out into a more manageable mane. "Didn't sleep well, that's all," she finally told him, trying to turn into the shadows.

Whether she convinced the Pontiac – _Windcharger_, she finally recalled – was not completely clear. Without seeing his face, hidden under that hood and various interchanging parts, all she could go by were his headlights, windshield wipers and the way that he hugged her driveway. If there was one thing about Autobot body language that she had been able to learn, they had a tendency to hunker down if considering a course of action, much like a human's shoulders and neck tightening.

With a click, Windcharger's passenger-side door swung open. "Didn't mean to come so early, but I have a bunch of things to do," he said conversationally, his front tires turning slightly right and left, as if he were eager to be gone. "Sparkplug asked me to drop this book off for you – he says 'thank you', by the way."

On the black leather seat of Windcharger's interior lay a thick diet book. Alina had never had much use for such a cookbook, but her grandmother had been insistent, saying that while she didn't need to change her figure, a lady should be able to keep it that way.

"No problem," she murmured, tucking it under her arm. The door shut as soon as her arm cleared and she stepped back to allow the red Autobot room. Windcharger revved his engine and started backing up when he paused and lowered his front end. Alina paused in her retreat, getting the distinct impression that the mech was eying her shrewdly from behind sophisticated sensors.

"I saw a few young males running away when I came through," he began mildly, sounding just like Mirage. "Are they still bothering you?"

Hitching the book firmly under her arm, Alina sighed and shook her head. "I think you guys have better things to do than to keep every hoodlum from defacing my property," she told him. "That's what the police are for." _Just don't tell Mirage_, she added silently, knowing the spy's penchant for night-time stalking.

"Just wondering," the Pontiac replied calmly.

_He's fishing for the truth_, Alina realized. _And he's not going to leave … dammit_. It was bad enough to have people vandalize her home and yard because she had been seen in Autobot company … it was no better when they saw that she also had some sort of protection by them as well. Granted, it kept the more hard-core of vandals away, but that didn't stop kids like those three boys from testing their mettle. "You're not going to leave until I tell you, huh?" she finally said and was rewarded with a flick of the headlights. "Okay, I had a package delivered today and a couple kids played around with it. It was a present for my parents – a coffee pot." _God, you need sleep more than you realize! Snapping at fifteen-foot tall robots takes either guts or a large amount of alcohol._ _… Say, do I have any rum left?_

Windcharger gave a small chuckle and it took her a moment to realize that he wasn't laughing at her. "You Earth people have strange recreational activities," he noted with wry amusement. With a flicker of his headlights, the Pontiac backed up and out of her driveway. Alina turned around, peering into her neighbors' windows to see if any other early risers had noticed the exchange. "By the way," Windcharger called out from the road, "give me the thing they broke. I'll see if Hoist can fix it up. I'd give it to Wheeljack, but he might make it shoot lasers."

Faced with the prospect of several hours' negotiating with the company or spending another eighty-five dollars, Alina chose easy street. She jogged inside, retrieved the package and came back, dropping packing peanuts like rose petals at a wedding. Windcharger popped his door and she settled it on his seat, watching with fascination as the seatbelt latched around the box. "Beats all my other errands," Windcharger muttered half to himself as he closed his door and finally started on his way out. Tucking her hands into her robe's pockets, Alina stood on tip-toe, watching him go until his red fender was out of sight. For all the trouble they caused her, it was nice to be on friendly terms with shapeshifting robots.

Giving in to a jaw-popping yawn, Alina tucked an errant strand of hair over her ear and wandered back inside where the shadows were more forgiving.


	6. Under Stars

5. Under Stars  
**Storm, emerald pendant, library.  
**_Suggested by: Cait_

**A/N: Lately, I've been wondering what might have happened had Alina not died and remained human. Here's one of those thoughts ... which, technically, I suppose, would be considered AU to the SC world. **

There was a man in the driver's seat of the sleek blue Corvette. This would not have been unusual at all, had he not shimmered in the sunlight, or refused to blink.

"_Tell me again why we have to drag _her_ along."_

Alina pulled herself closer to the rearview mirror, lifting a curl of black hair and trying to decide whether or not to let it hang over her ear or behind it. Though her mass of hair took up a goodly portion of the mirror, she could just see the golden Lamborghini's sleek nose riding on her car's bumper.

Sophisticated paneling lit up along the dash; a voice came from several thin slits therein rather from the mouth of the stone-faced hologram beside her. "Is justification truly in order, Sunstreaker? –Interesting arrangement," Tracks noted to Alina as she tilted her head to the side in his mirror. The raven-haired woman gave the panel a tight, uneasy smile and sat back on the Corvette's plush interior, her blue eyes flicking between the rearview mirror and the passenger side.

A snort that sounded more like a rumbling growl mixed with the underestimating purr of a fine-tuned engine rolled across the tight comm-link. _"Yeah, Versace, it is."_

_I don't need this_, she thought, taking a deep breath to center herself and instead focused her gaze on the unending white line of the breakdown lane. _I've gotten this far. If you keep talking, I might second-guess myself. _

Tracks' dash panel blinked with rows of red and purple; dials indicating his fuel levels and that of various coolants flickered. Around Alina, the Corvette's superstructure shuddered as if the Autobot were pulling in his "shoulders" at the prospect of trying to explain an obvious situation. "Indeed," the Corvette replied at his most urbane. "For this mission, a woman is needed. Carly is obviously too immature by human standards to gain access, and Astoria's penchant for adversely influencing mechanics would be damaging to our objective."

"_You and Perceptor been sippin' from the same cube?"_ Sunny rumbled, pulling around the Corvette when the main road broadened to two lanes.

With a sigh, Alina scrunched down in Tracks' passenger seat, going over the plan as outlined to her by Prowl as the two Autobots bickered. _Step one: get into the shop. Step two: act like you have money. Step three: remember that you're doing this because you have no job and the Autobots are giving you part of their government stipend because they feel responsible for the Decepticons gouging a huge hole in your office wall._

Thunder rolled ominously overhead, a curious thing due to the light blue of the late-afternoon sky. Automatically, Alina pulled at the triangular collar of her powersuit around her neck as if trying to ward off bad omens. Life had been rather pleasant lately – until a Decepticon raid on a Central City warehouse got out of hand. In a battle between Optimus Prime and Megatron, the former had successfully subdued the Decepticon leader – by throwing him through Alina's publishing firm's wall. Thankfully, the media had alerted that sector of the city to the Transformers' movements, so everyone was able to evacuate without any unnecessary deaths. However, the causalities among businesses were too high to count.

Thousands were out of work, many never return to their offices. And here she was, friend to the Autobots, and volunteering to stake out certain posh shops that the Cassetticons had been recently visiting in Central City. _Because you need the money_, she muttered, suddenly feeling useless and dependant. _And really, because you owe them_, some rational part of her noted as Sunstreaker's voice shouted something inappropriate in Cybertronian over the commlink.

"Having second thoughts?" Tracks asked calmly, effectively shutting the golden Lambo off, save for a light that would glow if danger reared its purple pointed head.

The Autobot's words trickled slowly into her brain. It took her a moment to realize that yes, she was the only one here, and yes, the Corvette was addressing her. _Well, they _did_ have to cobble that hologram together on short notice ... _"Just a little nervous," she admitted, glancing around for her wide-brimmed hat. Finding it laying in the back seat, she pulled it out and began to methodically brush invisible lint from the surface.

"Time to put that aside," the car replied, albeit a little loftily as he rolled into a parking space in front of the posh perfume shop that was their intended target. "Here."

A panel slid away in the blue Corvette's dash; a thin board extended towards her. In the center was a rather large (fake) emerald pendant which would serve as a link between Alina and the two Autobots. Arranged rather neatly on either side of the piece were matching earrings – thankfully smaller.

_Well, here we go_, the woman thought as she reached for the elaborate comm unit. Brave thoughts did not quell the rolling feeling in her stomach or the subtle ache between her eyes. Slipping the necklace and arranging it more comfortably over her chest, she slid the earrings into newly-pierced lobes. As she reached for Tracks' door handle, a scene of the none-too-distant past flashed before her mind's eye:

_

* * *

_

_"You do understand that there is an element of danger, Alina?" asks the Autobot leader as he leans forward. His blue helm is scarred with laser-blasts and pock-marked by steel beams – aesthetic damage the Autobots' chief medic, Ratchet, did not see fit to polish. The face mask moves up and down, slowly, in time to the words that flow from his vocalizer._

_She nods, slowly. "There's no other way," she remembers replying. "It's as you said: Carly would be thrown out, and no Autobot other than Powerglide is willing to give Astoria a ride."_

_To Prime's right, Prowl gives a wry snort. The second-in-command's stance brooks no argument, though his words a soft. "Unfortunately, given the circumstances, and the information we've been able to gather, you are our last resort. It could turn out to be nothing more than the Decepticons mistaking some trivial human commodity, but we can take no chances."_

_"I understand." Her voice sounds hollow. She remembers how Mirage had been adamant about her staying out of Autobot affairs, and her own words, now strange and otherworldly, telling the spy that she owed them. To either side of her, Spike and Sparkplug nod. Their presence reminds her of how strongly the Autobots value their human allies and to the lengths they will go to ensure their safety. "I understand completely."_

_Prowl looks to Prime, then nods. "Then we will begin …"_

_

* * *

"Good luck,"_ whispered Tracks through the earrings as she stepped out of the passenger seat with more grace than she thought possible. Keeping to their prescribed roles, Alina leaned back inside, looking right at the hologram. "Come back in an hour or so, darling," she told it with a vapid smile, summoning the ladies from _Dynasty_. Tugging the pale blue hat more securely on her head, feeling that it would be more acceptable at the Kentucky Derby, Alina took deliberate, high-heeled steps into the perfume shop. Behind her, Tracks pulled back onto the road, a driverless golden Lamborghini following him to the regional library around the corner. 

_Look like you belong here_, she reminded herself as chimes rang above her head, announcing her presence to the shop. _Astoria would be more at home here than I, _she muttered with embarrassment as she took in the rich atmosphere. Pushing the door wide, Alina entered the building and glanced around, trying to keep up the façade of rich trophy wife. She stood in a rather large shop in the classy sector of Central City, an area of town that had been fortunate over the years to keep off of the Decepticon radar. What need did the power-hungry beings have for signature clothing, expensive purses made from crocodile skin, or fragrances?

So the Autobots and their human allies believed – until several shops had reported being raided by two short creatures in overlarge trench coats. Objects had been smashed, patrons put in harms' way … and the Autobots had no idea why. That was, until Chip Chase, Spike's friend, discovered that there was a perfume being distributed in limited quantities that just so happened to possess rather _interesting_ qualities. The perfumery reports were deceptively vague – and "top secret" – but it was enough to interest Megatron – and Optimus Prime.

Across the entrance, two shopkeepers looked up from their books and gave Alina identically icy and professional smiles – expressions that would not see warmth until she showed them the color of her money. Ignoring them, Alina gave them her left shoulder and inspected a row of delicate glass bottles that lined the wall. The fragrance in question was being sold under the name _Soft Breezes_ – oddly mundane considering the price. Alina wandered the length of the shop, nodding to the old lady who shuffled into her path the barest of cursory glances. The elderly woman wrinkled her pinched features and dropped her nose back into the sampler she was stuffing up her nostrils. _Damn, they really _do_ act like that!_ Mildly surprised, Alina edged around the old biddy and continued to scan the shelves.

"Alina! What are you doing here?"

Heart in her throat, blood hammering against her temples, Alina spun around to see the one and only Astoria Carlton-Ritz standing two inches away. The heiress to Hi-Tech was fetching in pale green, her mass of brown hair tied with a loose ribbon; a small white dog was tucked under her right arm, matching purse clutched in that hand.

"Miss Carlton-Ritz – what can we do for you?"

_How typical_, Alina muttered within the confines of her pounding head. _I might look the part, but Astoria has the reputation._ But Astoria smiled and waved taller of the two ice queens away with an easy flick of her wrist. Alina found herself staring, wondering how the younger woman managed that maneuver without making it seem dismissive. "Just chatting with a good friend, Priscilla. I'll let you know if I need anything." Before the woman could finish her scraping, Astoria tucked her free hand around Alina's right arm and dragged her merrily away into a secluded corner. It was here that the combined scents of the myriad bottles was the strongest; Alina blinked, fighting back tears and shoving her finger under her nose to quell a mighty sneeze. Astoria or no, those women looked as if they'd boot her in her matching pale blue booty if she sprayed all over their faux crystal decanters.

"So!" Astoria began, all smiles and sunshine, not in the least affected by the odor. "What brings you here? Did you find a special guy at last?"

Despite herself, Alina colored. With _her_ reputation, finding a date was … well … difficult. "No …"

_"Don't tell her! Don't tell her!"_ hissed Tracks in her ear. The shock of his voice lent to a yelp of surprise, which Alina quickly stifled behind a fake cough. Astoria tipped her head to the side, her veritable mound of hair shifting. "Did you hear that?" she asked, hiking the terrier more firmly under arm. "It sounded like … oh, familiar?"

Her chest heaving, Alina took several deep breaths. "Maybe that old lady sniffed too much _Morning Dew_." She winked. As Astoria turned to get a glimpse of the older woman, Alina dug her finger furiously in her ear, which was still ringing softly.

"Could be. So, no lucky man?" Astoria asked. An interesting query coming from a woman who was infatuated with Powerglide.

"No," Alina admitted, her eyes scanning the rows between meeting Astoria's. Did they keep the stuff under lock and key? It was getting to be a bit too much to handle in here, with all the various scents all vying for her nose's attention.

"Too bad," the other admitted sympathetically, without a trace of condescension. "Looking for anything particular?" she asked, observing Alina's wandering attention.

_Despite her apparent vapid manner, she's good_, Alina noted with a mental smile. "_Soft Breezes_?"

Astoria's brown eyes widened. "Really? That's expensive … even for me," she admitted in a hush. At her arm, the terrier squeaked and the younger woman calmed it with a soothing croon. "Hm. I seem to remember seeing the bottle in _Cosmopolitan_ …" Muttering quietly to herself, Astoria moved down the row of glasses, one fingertip outstretched as she looked.

_"Well, that was close,"_ snarked Sunstreaker. _"Don't give the afthead any more info."_ Alina bit back another yelp of surprise; turning towards the window she whispered into the emerald:

"I don't want to hear anything of the sort. She's smarter than she looks."

Sunstreaker muttered something unintelligible – or in Cybertronian, she couldn't be sure. Tracks' voice snuck into her right ear. _"Do pick up the pace, dear girl. My cursory warning system is ringing."_

"Ah! Here it is. Have a sniff."

Astoria's long fingers suddenly produced a thin-stemmed sampler, uncorked. The full force of the perfume – not an _au-de-toilette_ like Alina was used to – hit her in the olfactory system. Hard. _Oh, dear god! The Decepticons want to steal _that_? They can have it!_

Astoria took an experimental sniff of her own, her delicate eyebrows arching upwards in surprise. "Well, that was unexpected," she commented wryly, brushing under her nose. "From what I read, it was supposed to be a subtle blending of 'wind' and 'summer'."

"No kidding," Alina managed through the short, powerful sneezes that wracked her body. "But I'll take it anyway –"

Without a warning, glass exploded into a thousand shards, their deadly edges flying in all directions within the close confines of the perfume shop. Twin cries of shock and fear rose from Alina's and Astoria's throats – they dropped to the ground, the latter with a wayward shard lodged her upper arm. The heiress rolled, crying and releasing the white terrier. The dog, having more sense than the humans, ran for cover on short, fast legs with nary a look behind him; all pretenses of loyalty vanished with the need to survive.

Holding an arm up to shield her eyes from any new explosions, Alina glanced down at her friend. Astoria lay on her side, covered with several broken bottles and jars; both women positively reeked. "Astoria!" Alina cried, scrambling over to her, only to draw back as a large, square shadow loomed over their bodies.

"Well, if it ain't Powerglide's fleshy friend."

Metal clanged on metal, accompanied by the harsh sound of canvas rubbing against steel. A rude laugh, identical in tone to the first speaker, echoed above Alina's head. Pulling herself closer to Astoria, the black-haired woman at last saw the blood that was trickling down the heiress' arm, staining her grass green sundress sticky brown. Fear for Astoria's life trumped the need to preserve her own.

"We got a two-fer-two, Rumble – Powerglide's friend _and_ Mirage's!"

The same laugh, but from coming from her left. Knocking the broken bottles aside, her cut hands stinging with the potent mixtures, Alina pushed back the brim of her hat to see two tall figures in oversized trench coats looming over them. Huge detectives' hats were pulled over red wrap-around visored faces – one head in blue and purple, the other in red and black.

"Keep an optic on 'em, Frenzy," the blue one ordered, palming a small pistol from nowhere. "I saw two Autobums sniffin' around; they can be sausages."

"_Hostages_," the red and black miniature mech shot back, reaching for Astoria.

"Who cares?" Rumble retorted, stomping off towards the front of the shop, where Alina could hear him demanding their supply of _Soft Breezes_.

Whether the miasma of scents roused her, or the touch of cold alien metal around her bleeding arm, Astoria shot straight up, her brown eyes blazing with a fury Alina had never seen before. "Get your hands off of me, you metal cretin!"

Frenzy sniggered, an unpleasant sound coming from a steel voice box. He scooped Astoria up with his right hand and pulled her close to his boxy frame.

_"Alina! ALINA! What on Cybertron is going –"_

A huge metal paw flashed before Alina's wide eyes. She gasped, cold terror flooding her body as Frenzy reached for her throat. Scrabbling to her feet, she tried to dash to the side; sleek and malodorous, the tile gave way under her high heels. The world slowed to a crawl as she tipped forward, one leg going in front of the other, the _snap_ of a broken heel echoing in the stillness of the shop.

Sudden, excruciating pressure at her neck drove all the air from her body. Saliva rolled from Alina's gaping mouth as Frenzy's thick digits wound their way around the silver chain that held her comm pendant. _Neckgonnabreak …!_

As quickly as it had come, the pressure was released. The chain snapped, links flying across her cheeks and shoulders. Alina tipped into a nose-dive, hitting the floor inches from Frenzy's feet. Copper flooded her mouth, a cut on her lip courtesy of the broken bottles.

With a groan, Alina dug her fingertips into the slick tile. The world swam in miniature waves across her field of view – and smelled just as bad. There was a tinny _clang_ beside her right ear; with a moan, she levered herself upright, just enough to see Frenzy's foot come crashing down a millimeter from her ear. Faux emerald shards exploded from underneath the Cassetticon's foot, slamming into her side – pelting but not puncturing.

"Jus' like that disappearin' rich mech," Frenzy sneered. "A spy!"

Dragging her wrist across her mouth to wipe the worst of the blood away, Alina pushed herself into a half-crouch. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead, the sky beyond the shop darkening with every passing second. _Where _are_ they?_ tumbled around and around in her mind. Surely Tracks and Sunstreaker heard the Cassette Twins' voices over the comm unit before Frenzy stomped it to dust.

"Get over here!"

Looking up, Alina saw Frenzy's left hand coming down for a second grab. Try as she might, she could not get her legs to move as quickly as her hyper-active brain. The Decepticon minion was successful – his hard fingers digging into her upper arm. With brutal force, the red and black mechanoid lifted her into the air, to dangle side by side with Astoria, as if they were two ventriloquist dummies.

"Rumble! Let's go!" Frenzy shouted over his shoulder.

"I'm comin' – hold your technoquines!" his twin shot back. Whispered whimpers followed the blue Cassetticon to his twin's side; clutched in the crook of one stained arm was a small brown package. "You go first – the Autobums are here."

"That's right," Astoria snarled from her position on the right of Frenzy. The spitfire heiress walloped the Decepticon on the side of his head with the flat of her purse, then again – and again. "You two midgets won't stand a chance." She hauled back with one soft-shod foot and booted Frenzy in the groin – or where the pelvis would have been on a human. Still, the joint structure was the same. Frenzy dodged to the side, swinging Alina by her arm and a bit of her collar.

As she flew through the air, part of Alina's brain that was still functioning noticed that the Decepticon seemed a bit off-balance. To test her theory, she swung at his other side. Her harder shoe connected with a resounding _clang_.

"Hey! Cut it out! Ow!"

"C'mon!" Rumble hissed, making for the hole they had blown in the shop's bay window.

Alina kicked harder, vertigo assailing her as the small red and black mech stumbled in his way towards freedom. Nausea was worth it if it meant that she was going to live another day. Though her feet were rapidly becoming sore, and as surely as blisters began to weal up, she felt invigorated.

And heartened. For as the twins quarreled, two larger figures appeared before the shop. Alina caught herself in mid-swing, her mouth dropping open, heart and soul lifting at the sight of Sunstreaker and Tracks standing there. The golden warrior had his weapon drawn and pointed with deadly precision at Frenzy's covered head. "Drop the girls, scraplet," he growled.

"Gotta catch us first, Autoscum," Rumble taunted, reaching out and grabbing his brother by the shoulder – an action that was cumbersome and more of a hindrance than helpful, for he still carried the box of purloined perfume.

As the box swung towards her, Alina reached out and grabbed one of the sleek baby blue bottles. Transformer physiology was different than that of humans, but they still shared the same senses. While Astoria kicked and cursed lady-like phrases, Alina palmed the bottle and smashed it into Frenzy's face.

"WHAT!"

In his surprise, Frenzy dropped both women. Alina hit the ground with a solid, tail-bone breaking thud. In that moment, the air above her head blossomed into laser fire. The heat was scorching, enough to set the ends of her hair smoldering.

Something tall and gold swept past, massive feet coming within inches of her head. Cybertronian war cries and epithets filled the air, competing with the rolling thunder and the crash of lightning. In the moment between one flash of lightning and the next, the skies above Central City opened up. Within a minute, Alina was thoroughly soaked.

Peering through the rain, she saw Sunstreaker take the back of his hand and slam Frenzy – or was it Rumble? – into the nearest shop wall. The thunder that rolled overhead was echoed by the tremors that buckled and broke the pavement under her hands and knees.

"Alina!"

Crawling across the make-shift battlefield was Astoria, her hair plastered to her head. Grabbing her hands, Alina hauled the heiress over a mound of blacktop. Together, they huddled, peering over the tops of their fingers as Sunstreaker knocked one twin, then the other, against lamp posts, walls – and each other.

Her heart beat fast – too fast. It slammed against her ribcage, jolting the bones and pressing them painfully against her skin. Adrenaline coursed through the woman's body, widening her eyes and increasing the breath in her lungs.

Rubble – or was that _Rumble_? – flew over their heads to crash with a resounding _boom_. Distantly, Alina could hear the screams of innocent bystanders; the roar of fire engines and the high whine of police sirens. But the sound, the vibration in her body, was that of Sunstreaker's giant feet as he paraded back to their impromptu bunker. Rain slithered off of his polished body, now liberally streaked with flecks of pink, blue and green – colors that did not run as easily as the brown swatches across his chest.

"And where were _you_?" he demanded hotly, crossing his arms over his expansive chest.

Heavy footsteps, delicately placed, vibrated the broken pavement behind the two women. Alina looked up through the pouring rain to see Tracks' crimson facial planes fold into an unconcerned mien. "Checking on the status of the humans caught in your version of Cybertron rugby," was the urbane reply.

"You could have helped."

Tracks' laugh was deep and rolling, but interestingly enough, not the in condescending manner Alina expected from him. "I rather enjoyed watching you play by yourself. You seemed to be having a good time."

Sunstreaker frowned, then lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "Let's go, huh? I need Ratchet to wash this Decepticon crap off of me. I think I'm smoldering in some places." His feral facial planes curled downwards in disgust. He paused and lifted one thick arm and sniffed. "What is that smell!"

Alina's wide eyes arched higher in her face, pulling at skin already stretched too tight. "Perfume," she offered meekly. "I hit one of them in the face with a bottle."

Tracks looked down at her, then walked over to Sunstreaker. Begrudgingly, the melee warrior let the red-faced mech take his arm for analysis. "You're slowly corroding, Sunstreaker," he observed. Cupping one hand, Tracks caught the deluge and vigorously rubbed it along the golden mech's arm.

"And people put that on themselves!" Alina heard Astoria exclaim in shock. The heiress looked no better than Alina believed _she_ did – hat gone, hair a mess, clothes plastered to her body. At least the bleeding along her upper arm had stopped; at some point during Sunstreaker's punting practice, Astoria had removed the offending shard. The bandage around her wound was expertly tied. Wriggling at her side was the white terrier, dirty but whole.

But Tracks looked thoughtful. "I have not heard any news regarding smoldering humans," he said, looking at Sunstreaker's arm again. "Where did you leave Rumble?" With a grunt, the golden warrior jerked his head behind him.

As Alina checked herself for any wounds she had not felt during her adrenaline rush, a squad of policemen came jogging up to them. They drew to a halt, pistols at the ready. As her gaze flickered to Sunstreaker, the mech seemed to be vaguely offended at the notion. "You there!" one called out; Alina swung her head in their direction. "Come with us. We have a med team waiting to inspect survivors."

Alina and Astoria looked at each other, then up at the two mechs. Tracks walked up, a small box in one large hand. "I –" Alina began.

"Ma'am, come with us," the cop insisted. Around them, the officers began to lock their hands around the women's wrists, prepared to lead them off.

"These two females are with us, my good man," Tracks interjected smoothly.

"I think you've done enough for today," the officer in charge told him brusquely. Pressure around Alina's wrist increased, a subtle warning for her to go with her own kind. Astoria was not walking so quietly – she was cursing and shouting for her dog, anything that would delay their removal.

_Yes, for all her faults, she knows what she's doing_, Alina noted with a small smile. As she looked up at Sunstreaker, the golden warrior and Tracks exchanged looks. In the amazing rotation of parts, the melee warrior sat in his altmode upon the broken pavement. His door opened and Tracks placed his soggy package in the passenger seat, with nary a grumble from Sunstreaker. Then, with an ease of motion, Tracks planted himself between the officers and their squad. "The ladies come with us," he insisted. "Autobots stick together."

Pressure around her wrist lightened, then was removed all together as the officer who was holding onto her reached for his firearm. Pride and embarrassment flooded the raven-haired woman's taxed heart at Tracks' words. A quick glance behind her to Astoria saw the same expression on her flawless face.

In the distance, a high whine resonated throughout the streets – growing louder and longer with each passing second. Though, to most ears, it was the same as a regular siren, but Alina had not hung around the Autobots for these past two years without knowing something of their signature sounds. Also, it helped that as the sleek black and white squad car pulled up, it transformed.

Prowl's door wings flicked over his shoulder plates as he surveyed the damage wrought by Sunstreaker's wonton play, but spoke instead to the officer near Alina. "I am Prowl, second-in-command to Optimus Prime. How may I help you in your investigation?"

The officer looked around at the destruction, then back up at Prowl. His face took on a curious look. "You can help by taking your … men … with you. We will deal with this."

_He must be new to the district_, Alina thought wryly. _Most Central City residents will piss on themselves to interact with Autobots._

Prowl nodded slowly, not at all dissuaded. "Well, if that is the case, I will collect our allies and we will vacate the premises immediately. Here, let me give you my contact information for the damages …"

"Allies?" the man repeated. "They're humans."

"And friends," Prowl stressed. "Tracks, see to Alina and Astoria; I will remain for a moment."

The officer stepped between the red-faced mech and the two women. "They are getting medical attention for their wounds."

"Which they can receive with utmost care at our base," Prowl returned smoothly.

"They're _human_!"

Alina had been listening to the whole conversation with constant flip-flopping of the heart. She knew that Prowl would not let them be taken by the police, but the way he was handling the officer required delicacy and utmost tact so as not to offend – and that would take a long, long time.

As the officer argued semantics with Prowl, Tracks leaned over and slipped something into her hand. Alina felt a thin, rectangular card in her palm, and she turned it over. On one side was the ubiquitous Autobot symbol – the red face of Primus, their creator-god; with another flip, she saw her name, picture and an impressive list of credentials, as well as several government agencies claiming that she was an "official" aid to the Autobots. Water beaded and slid off of the clear plastic.

"Is this …" she asked up at the Corvette, who cut her off with a shake of his head, flicking droplets with every motion. By the looks of Astoria's face, she was wondering if it, too, was fake.

When she looked up, the same officer was standing in front of her, his thick lips drawn in a thin line. "Let me see those IDs." Wordlessly, Alina passed hers over; Astoria gave a flick of her wrist, holding the card out between two long, slim manicured fingers, their French tips broken. The cop gave them the shortest of perusals before thrusting them back at Alina and Astoria. "You're free to go," he told them, walking away to deal with the encroaching crowd.

Behind him, Prowl gave the two women one of his rare, small smiles. "Go on." And he turned around, his door wings flaring out behind him as he took notes in the rain.

Tracks nodded in silent agreement; walking over to an unaltered part of the road, he transformed and held open both doors. Alina made for the passenger seat, but a quick motion of Tracks' windshield wipers urged her to the driver's side. When she saw Astoria pick up her dog and remnants of her purse, the black-haired woman understood why. As she slid into the smooth leather seat, Alina heard Tracks' soft moan of despair echoing from his dash panel. _Well, it's not the first time I've graced an Autobot's innards with my wet butt_, she thought with amusement.

"Hey! Can we listen to the radio?" Astoria exclaimed as Tracks shut both doors, his alien engine rumbling to life.

"Oh, Primus …" the Corvette muttered as he turned the heat on to full. But Alina merely smiled, fingering the card that was tucked into the pocket of her ruined, bloody and tattered pants. Tracks pulled forward, his lights winking in the darkness as they drove off into the night, under the stars.


	7. Surprised

11. Surprised  
_White tiger, snowplow, computer graphics.  
_**Suggested by: Tyrrlin**

**A/N: Loosely based on a dream I had. **_**Non-canon**_

Cold seeped into her circuitry, crawled up her trylithium bones and wormed into the delicate wires and nodes of her cortex. She half-knelt in the snow, pistol draped with false idleness over one spiked knee, staring between the jagged peaks of the mountains that encircled their small group. Beyond those ice-capped behemoths, a battle raged.

Widening her optics with a whirl and a click, Solarflare could see the orange and purple of each side's tracers arcing over a sky of pure, pristine blue. Behind her, Hoist's engine rumbled, barely masking the grunts of the engineer as he pushed hard-packed snow and ice from the smooth face of this particular mountain. Sitting in a freshly-plowed furrow was Windcharger, keeping Chip Chase warm as Hoist dug. The human was not watching Hoist's endeavor; rather, his head was bent low, studying the diagrams on one of Wheeljack's devices.

"How much longer, Hoist?" Windcharger demanded when a wayward rocket blew a peak to bits. Chunks of mountain flew in every direction, showering them with pebbles and fist-sized rocks. "If the readings are correct …"

Hoist grunted loudly, steam wafting over his hood; it wrapped around his side mirrors and curled over his roof, to disperse into the cold air. _Poor Hoist_, Flare thought, brushing pebbles from sensitive crevasses and lifting her stiffening frame from where she lay on the ground, making an impromptu snow-eagle. Keeping her pistol in her right hand, she dug into subspace with her left; rummaged around for her pillbox, popped the top and shook one of Ratchet's horse pills down her metallic throat, where it landed with a hollow _thunk_ at the bottom of her tank. A shot of Energon followed.

Rising, the grey femme rotated her shoulders, staring over the mountain horizon. "Are we getting close, Chip?" she asked over her shoulder. Her wings went taunt as she saw a flicker of Decepticon Seeker wings arcing towards them, only to be clipped by a smart hit from Powerglide.

Safe and warm within Windcharger's interior, the human nodded. His voice echoed around in their internal audio receptors, augmented by the red and grey Pontiac. _"Almost there,"_ he promised. _"Sensor readings indicate that there's a cave-in close by. We should be able to access the interior that way."_

"Good," the usually-jolly Hoist groaned. He dislodged the plow from his front bumper and transformed, stretching his nozzle-hand towards the cleared area. With one optic on the battle that was keeping the Decepticons from this very spot, Flare watched Hoist lean towards the barren rockface; he pressed his cheek to the wall, the fingers of his other hand spread over the surface, moving slowly, like a safecracker.

Windcharger was watching, too. "They're getting closer, buddy. Hurry up."

"In due time, in due time," the green-gold tow-truck replied a little tersely. "Ah. Here. Move back, Charger."

The Minibot obliged, eager to get on with the mission. Flare shifted as Hoist's nozzle-hand aimed at the center of what appeared to be old rock fall. She ended up diving head-first into the now-hard snow as Hoist's blast ripped through the mountain's side. "Oops." The grey avian femme angled wings away from her helm, shifting pebbles and toe-sized chunks from their sharp planes.

" 'Oops'," she echoed, frowning. Hoist's brow ridge rose in abject embarrassment, the tip of his gun curling grey and black smoke. He shrugged and looked to Chip. The human was climbing out of Windcharger's passenger seat, tugging the collar of his winter parka close to his neck. No wheelchair bound him these days, not with Autobot ingenuity strapped to his legs and wired to his nervous system. Still technically paralyzed, Chip Chase could now walk freely.

"This is definitely it, guys," Chip declared, glancing at the readout streaming over the hand-held's screen. Flare wandered over and looked down, seeing the colored aura that pulsed from the heart of the peak.

"I'll radio Optimus," she told them, turning to face the battle beyond the other peaks. A slim mic slid from its recess along her right cheek as she sought to contact the Autobot commander.

_" … good … zzssshhh … proceed, Solarflare."_

Reception fizzled, popped and abruptly died. Optics wide, Solarflare stared across the icy world and saw the same amount of purple as she did orange. "Optimus! Optimus?" Where was Blaster when she needed his boosting abilities? Oh, yes, at the Ark, doing her normal duties while she actually got to play.

"What's wrong?" Windcharger demanded, transforming and shaking the snow from his lower legs.

"I lost contact."

Hoist, examining the stability of the newly-opened cavern hole, nodded absently. "I don't doubt it. At this altitude, coupled with the high level of energy discharge, it's no wonder you can't make a connection." He paused. "Can you bounce the signal off of a satellite, back to yourself and out to Optimus?"

Solarflare stared at the engineer, lip components slack. Slowly, she shook her head, feeling decidedly lacking in equipment. She wasn't Blaster – not by a longshot. Her talents lay in sorting, multitasking, general secretary work. Blaster was _built_ for communication; she could only hope to gain the necessary components. "I did manage to receive his go-ahead," she told them.

Windcharger nodded. "Well then, let's _go_." He motioned for Chip to precede him, then followed, not even bothering to duck. Solarflare paused, eyed the size of the opening and compared it to herself.

"Are you coming?" she asked the tow truck, stalling for time.

He gestured to his wider frame, a rueful smile winking in the clean blue glass of his optics. "I'll stay here and keep an eye out for trouble."

"Flare!" Windcharger called out, his voice echoing in and around the cave. "Transform and get in here already!"

Abashed, Flare nodded in Hoist's direction and followed Windcharger's order. With the ungangly hop-skip-shuffle inherent in land-bound raptors, she scuttled across the uneven cavern floor until she reached the impatient Minibot and Chip. It was cold, if not colder, within the bowels of the mountain; frost-rimmed stalagmites jabbed downwards, threatening to drop at a moment's notice. Heat from her metallic structure rose into the air, landing on the rock teeth; dew formed, only to freeze a nanosecond later, creating a herd of teardrops.

Light receded the further they walked from the cave's mouth. Chip now road atop Windcharger's sleek shoulders, the utter _cold_ of the cave becoming too much for even his insolated boots. The Minibot lead the way, his headlights illuminating a path that slowly transformed from haphazard into smooth and uninhibiting.

It also grew taller.

Transforming, Solarflare stretched, popping a servo _and_ a pill. "This is not real," she whispered, part in fear of dislodging any hidden spires, part anxiety.

"The signal is exceedingly strong," Chip murmured, half to himself. The young man removed a small scan unit attached to the larger whole and swung it in a gentle arc. The unit obligingly increased the intensity with which it beeped. "What we're looking for is down that way." Windcharger swung in the indicated direction; his headlights washed over pale brown rock, shot through with thick veins of a darker brown, silver and black.

Flare turned on the spot, hand automatically reaching for her holster. "We didn't make this … who did?"

Windcharger snorted in agreement. "Dunno." He pursed grey lip components and walked over to the nearest wall, spreading his fingers against the smoothness, as if trying to discern identity by feel alone. "We're often finding things here that don't belong. Where to, Chip?"

Perched on the Minibot's shoulders, Chip peered at his scanner. "Still straight ahead."

The red-grey mech nodded. "Weapons out, Flare." A soft click heralded the extraction of Windcharger's pistol from subspace. With a nod, Solarflare drew hers, rapping taloned fingertips against the handle, edgy. With each passing moment, the cavern grew in size until it suddenly disgorged them into a massive amphitheatre. Chip's scanner gave voice to an aural-piercing shriek before exploding in a puff of smoke. Hastily, Chip dropped the device; jostling the human so that his head bounce on his neck like a bobblehead doll, Windcharger stamped the remains to a smoldering pile of crisped circuits.

Slowly, Flare stepped around them, both mech and man cursing and coughing. She holstered her pistol and set both hands on the Cybertronian-tall rail that encircled the amphitheatre. Down into the bowels she stared, optic shutters flickering in disbelief. Blowing smoke from his nasal passage, Windcharger fell in beside her. "By Primus," the red-grey Minibot swore.

"Primus indeed …" Solarflare echoed, talons flexing on the rail. It was smooth; glancing along its length, she could discern no spot where it had been welded together. A seamless, steel-colored affair that rose as high as her waist, it rose out of the floor as if it had sprouted. Such technology was not unknown to her, but to see it here – in the depths of the Himalayas – was disconcerting.

The contents of the amphitheatre were no less worrisome. Sitting in the middle of the chamber was a giant vial – a tube – filled with glowing green liquid. A long panel with various flickering lights and charts spanned half its length. Here, in the center of a mountain, the temperature was cool, but not _cold_. Chip immediately took advantage of it and loosened the parka around his shoulders.

"Time to play pass the human." Windcharger chuckled low and lifted Chip from his shoulders; Solarflare accepted her "prize" and made sure Chip was comfortably situated between shoulder strut and neck guard before following the sloping stairs down to the control room. Hooking a foot around what seemed to be a square container, she let Chip stand on his own two feet before the main panel – or what she perceived to be the center. Out of the corner of one optic, she saw Windcharger begin to pace the catwalk, his shoulder plates hunched, body slung into a low crouch.

"Look familiar?" Chip's query broke the femme's observation.

Slowly, she shook her head. "Not in the least." Setting dental plates to lower lip, Solarflare scanned the board for an access port. Chip's fingertips hovered over buttons but did not touch. The set-up was nearly his size, but raised high off the ground. "If you find a port, let me know," she told him, leaving the human genius to his devices, trusting his common sense.

She turned, walking around the huge tank. Viscous green ooze floated therein, an alien's answer to the lava lamp. The symbols that covered the surface did not match any in the Ark's databanks, nor was it in any human code. The buttons were colored as well as stamped with one symbol apiece, arranged in four-by-three groups. Lights flickered, flamed to life as she passed the half-way mark. _Oh, no_, she thought, taking a step back. A shrill sound pulsed once, then abruptly died.

"What's going on?" Windcharger demanded, panicked. Leaning over the railing, the Minibot's grey facial planes were streaked liberally with green as the tank glowed brighter.

"I don't know!" she called back, lowering her right arm from where it protected her cranium. "Chip!?"

"Activity on-screen," Chip answered, more calm and collected than either Autobot. As all three stared, transfixed, the liquid in the tank slowly turned from green to transparent, revealing an occupant. Gape-mouthed, Flare could not tear her optics away from the sight: it was a bird, a giant avian whose size paralleled her own – or more. It was curled in the fetal position, wings close to its body. Cream-colored, it bobbled like a toy, thin chest rising and falling; tubes protruded from its body, anchored to the tank's base.

"_Primus_," she whispered.

The floor beneath her pyramidal feet tremored as Windcharger vaulted the rail to land by her side. "Relative, Flare?"

The grey femme's crest flicked backwards in mild irritation. "I hope not; he's a skinny thing."

"You would be, too, if you were kept in a vial." Windcharger's head turned, scanning the area. "What _is_ it?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Chip called from the opposite side. "I think I got the configuration …"

"_Vae'a'tuu Vahsoii. Engi, engi … Vahsoii garen rakchok_ …"

The suddenness of the alien voice had them all jumping in place. Windcharger cursed, Chip regained his balance and Solarflare finally found a port. Almost immediately, she was engulfed in the virtual world of the alien's computer. Symbols, sounds and images not of Earth or Cybertron flooded past her core consciousness. "_Vahsoii, Vahsoii_," became the chant that followed her through the database.

Here was a code she could not crack on her own – not without Blaster. It was too complex, too alien. _You're a fool, you know, for leaping into this without the proper precautions_, she chastised herself, floating within the void. _But doesn't caution give way to necessity?_ Images flowed by her: scenes of Earth from days – millennia – gone by. Animals, environs, shots of the sky torn in twain by savage tornados. Solarfare saw lions, tigers, whales … all the animals of the known world. She saw a shadow, vaguely equine in facial structure, but standing upon two legs, a long tail waving behind it, tossing meat to a white tiger. "Reaching" out, Flare gently touched the picture –

—and was thrown out of the link.

PAIN swirled in her cortex, leaked out of her mouth, spilled over lip components as bright gold sparks.

_Pain_ echoed in her head, swirled within her body. _Pain_ hummed in time to the laser blasts which now filled the amphitheatre.

Dimly, Flare heard Windcharger's shouts, the raucous _caw_ born of a metallic throat. _Laserbeak_ – or Buzzsaw. Groaning, she levered herself onto one elbow, touching her jaw reflexively. Pain swarmed up her neck, arcing across delicate servos and nerve-wires, straight into her cortex.

"_Diagnostic_," she whispered hoarsely, thanking Primus for the fact that she hadn't gone too far into the system to do lasting harm.

"**Unit Solarflare. 5-percent damage to neurological circuits."**

"Repair."

"**Acknowledged."**

She could feel the subtle shift in her body as her system began internal repairs. But now was not the time to idly sit and contemplate. The metallic condor that was Buzzsaw ripped through the amphitheatre, screaming his triumph and insulting them at the same time. Where there was one Cassetticon, there were Decepticons on its little heels. Wings and legs groaning, Solarflare shoved herself to her feet, wobbling momentarily before her equilibrium straightened out.

Buzzsaw saw her appear from behind the creature's tank. He left off pecking at Windcharger's head and streaked for her. Small turrets behind his head opened up and rained a smart pattern of laser fire across her chest.

PAIN blossomed anew. With a scream, Flare twisted, spun and fell onto the console. It crumbled under her heavy weight, splintering, spluttering and showering white sparks across her Energon-streaked chestplate. Licking coolant from a busted lower lip, Flare struggled upright, optics following the pigeon to her eagle. "I … don't … think so," she growled, lifting her right arm. The panel atop her forearm peeled back; tri-barreled gun now lay exposed. Sighting along her wrist, Flare shot at the Decepticon.

Buzzsaw cawed, laughed. He spun on his inner pinion and clipped Windcharger across the back of his head as the Minibot struggled to return fire. _If I ever get the chance, I will _eat_ him_, Flare vowed, pressing her free hand to her chest. _Raw_. She fired again, then again. The black and orange condor laughed – until Windcharger jumped up and grabbed him by his stubby, pincher-like legs.

With a cry of triumph, Solarflare backed out of the console, dragging wires and bits of plastic along with her. They clung to her tail feathers and trailed off of the leading edge of her black steel pinions.

The Minibot swung Buzzsaw in a wide arc, intending to smash him head-first into the cavern wall. But Buzzsaw had other things to do with his head; as Windcharger released the Decepticon's legs, Buzzsaw's boosters kicked in. Buffeting Windcharger in the head with the edge of his wing, Buzzsaw miscalculated and smashed into the tank.

Viscous, colorless liquid exploded in every direction, drenching Flare. She coughed, spluttered, and was instantly covered with the inexplicable weight of the avian. Slick, sodden feathers were everywhere, filling the crevassed in her armor, in her optics and mouth. With a curse that would have made Sunstreaker smile, the grey femme waved her arms, trying to get a proper purchase on the creature. Wires trailed after it and broke, one by one, as she slipped on the floor, legs moving independently of her body.

Slowly, other voices called out. Someone grabbed her by the shoulder strut, hauling her away from the boiling ruin of the console. Blinded by feathers, she instinctively threw her wings out, catching whoever it was in the chest. The grunt that issued was decidedly familiar: "Gee, babydoll, care to let a mech help with yer package?"

Air whistled from her ventilators in relief. Gentle black digits peeled the worst of the avian's feathers from her helm, baring her optics. Jazz's visor winked back at her over the creature's bulk. "Hand 'em over, girl an' let th' doc check ya out. That goo can't be good for th' old chestplate, eh?"

"But … Buzzsaw?" she managed to say around the feathers. Jazz looped both arms around the bird and peeled him from her grasp.

"Ahhh, he shot outta here with a good deal of Autobot laser in his butt," the saboteur chuckled. A glint passed over his visor as he looked at the bird in his keeping. "What _is_ this?"

Something scuttled at their feet. Both Autobots looked down to see Chip Chase skid through the liquid. "I managed to glean a little from the console before Buzzsaw came," he told them, taking his glasses off and surreptitiously wiping them off on his soaked parka. "It's called a 'Vahsoii', I believe."

"Vahsoii?" Jazz repeated, frowning. "Ain't never heard a'those before."

" … vah … ha … ii …"

Jazz jumped, almost dropping the cream-colored beast in their mutual surprise. Against his shoulder, a head lifted, a black hooked beak moved. "… zai … ii …" it wheezed. " … vah … zai … ii … iii …" It trailed off, spent so dearly in body and mind.

"Say it again, m'man," Jazz urged, kneeling in the liquid, tipping the bird's head up to look in its eyes. "C'mon. I'm Jazz, what's yer name?"

Flare leaned close, one hand on Jazz's shoulder. Gummed lids flickered, peeled backwards. Grey flickered in the creature's eyes. As they watched, waited, the bird's beak parted … then it shuddered, violently, and lay still.

* * *

Solarflare stood in the snow, staring down at the rocky cairn that marked the bird's final resting place. Temporary patches covered her burned chestplate, but she did not mind the pain. She could dampen that – while this innocent could not. It would never feel again … but, it was _free_. 

"We've gathered what we could from the cave, Flare," Windcharger said, coming up from behind. He stopped by her side, looked at her face then down at the cairn. "We might never know what it was, or how it came to be here," he told her gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Be glad that he's gone, else Megs would've done something far worse."

_Was that supposed to be some form of comfort?_ she wondered. No, she couldn't be angry at Windcharger; he meant well. "Aye," she replied hollowly.

"Let's go, Flare. Wheeljack wants to take a look at the files you managed to snag," he said and led the mourning femme from the cairn. As she walked away, she hoped that the creature who had captured the Vahsoii, or whatever it called itself, was dead. For whoever used a living being to power a station was truly evil.

And if she ever came across the perpetrator, she would do the deed herself.

* * *

**Second A/N: There are two hints to my original work here; if you can guess them (they're fairly obvious) you get a cookie. :D The story is non-canon for these very reasons.**


	8. Flirty

25. Flirty  
**F-15, dice, and a cable.  
**_Suggested by: BleuHawke_

**A/N: Yet another what-if involving the human side of Solarflare.**

_And is she really human?  
__She's just so something new  
__A waking lithium flower  
__Just about to bloom  
__I smell lithium now  
__Smelling lithium now  
--_Scott Matthew_, Lithium Flower: _Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex

Astoria might not have any luck with machines, but she certainly knew how to pick men. Even if she was infatuated with a red transforming robot. Politely, Alina dabbed at her chin with the white silk napkin and nodded at some comment Astoria's human date made. Her own sat across the small square table at The White Fox, a rather upscale establishment in Central City. She found it rather ironic when Astoria mentioned that she, Alina, should see more of men than mechs. She didn't dare mention the fact to her friend's face, because she had seen the emotions therein the last time Carly had made an innocuous comment about her status with Powerglide.

"So, Alina, Astoria mentioned that you used to work in publishing."

With a start and an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, Alina realized that her date, Nathan, was speaking. She coughed and set the napkin down. "I did," she replied. "But it didn't last too long."

"Not to your tastes?" Nathan was a classically handsome fellow, the rich and powerful heir to a local software company. He rather reminded her of Mirage, minus the armor and the homesick attitude.

Alina half-smiled and slid a look in Astoria's direction. The CEO of Hi-Tech managed to be deep in her wine and in eye-contact with her date. "Actually, no. I liked it a lot, up until the day Megatron rammed his head into the superstructure."

There it was – the name. Nathan and Astoria's date's eyes widened perceptibly. "Oh, I've heard of you." Tyler, the other man, addressed her for the first time since they'd met at the door and sat down to the meal. He was too infatuated with Astoria and her money to pay Alina and her K-mart dress a second glance. "You run around with the Autobots."

_Ah, here we go again_, she thought, unable to quell the shiver. Astoria, shaken out of her wine-haze, shifted. _I thought I was over the judgment._

"I do, too," Astoria pointed out, no trace of petulance in her tone. She was learning, after all this time, to shed the rich girl attitude and claim the dignity of her birth. "It doesn't make Lina any different than you or me."

Nathan slid his friend a look. "Easy, Ty. Easy." He turned back to Alina, compassion in his eyes. "But, do you?"

It wasn't worth lying, as she'd found out a long time ago. "It's not exactly 'running around'," she explained, reaching for her wine and taking a sip. It was rich and heady, not what she really needed. Before she could drown in liquor, she set it aside. "I help out on missions, travel here and there."

"Like what?" He was genuinely curious – or a very fine actor.

"Places that a human needs to go, where we won't attract Decepticon attention."

Nathan frowned, but without malice. "Isn't that dangerous? Why would you risk your life for these robots? It's not our war."

Astoria's frown was deeper. This was personal. "Of course it's our war."

Sensing that Astoria was going to set aside her carefully crafted sense, Alina reached out and placed a hand on her wrist. She turned to Nathan. "Why do I risk myself?" She'd asked herself that question, so many times; it'd taken many sleepless nights to come to a definitive conclusion. After a moment, she shrugged. "They're my friends." Physically, she checked herself from sliding head-first into a declaration of Autobot loyalty; too many people were flicking her glances over their shoulders. The wait-staff also seemed rather interested. Coughing, Alina took the wine and sipped.

Astoria, prim and collected, smoothed her napkin in her lap. With a smile, she deftly steered the conversation in a more pleasant direction.

* * *

Nathan was kind enough to drop Alina off at her house, rather than have her suffer a limo ride with Tyler and Astoria. Alina actually _enjoyed_ limousine rides with Astoria, but that was minus the California boy swigging champagne and groping. The house Nathan pulled up to was not the simple white-paneled affair that Alina had purchased when she had moved back to Portland nearly five years ago. This cream colored, two-story house was located in the suburbs of Central City – closer to the Ark and located as far from anti-Autobot sentiments as her government-provided purse could selfishly afford.

The sleek red Mustang with white racing stripes pulled into her driveway. Nathan cut the engine and fingered the keys, looking at her expectantly. Alina blushed, sliding eyes away to the light above her front door, to the silhouette of her orange tabby in the living room window. _God, might as well invite him in,_ she decided at last. _It really has been a long time …_ "Would you like to come in?"

Classic blue eyes lit up. Nathan smiled and pulled the keys. "Wait there, lady." He was out the door and around to her side in a matter of seconds, surprising her with his alacrity. _So long …_ _But am I ready?_ Smoothing her dress, Alina swung her legs out and took Nathan's hand. Keys jingled in her hand with more chiming than they usually made. Fisk greeted them at the door, winding around her ankles and leaving a swatch of golden orange hair along the hem of her dress. He then planted himself firmly on the tip of her shoe, looking up at her with wide amber eyes and meowed. Any person who ever shared living space with a cat knew what that meant.

"Excuse me, I have to feed him or he'll start on the curtains again." Almost absently, she gestured to the wide blue and green sofa. "Have a seat." Scooping Fisk up, she settled him under her arm and moved to the sectioned-off kitchen, the cat's purr rumbling in her wake.

Nathan Wohl had been in many women's apartments and houses; they were less … homey than Alina Michaels'. The woman showed her ordinary roots with every piece of furniture and knick-knack that crowded the large room. He spun in a slow circle, appraising. The television was of ordinary size, with a sleek VCR parked underneath. Jammed into the wide shelves was a small horde of videos and books, both vying for the most space. Several photo albums were stacked with casual abandon before the glass paneling of the TV stand.

With Alina's off-key humming and mild chatter to her cat in his ears, Nathan leaned down and picked up the topmost album. The first dozen pages held family picnics, birthdays, occasional silly shots; the last simply confounded him. Certainly, he was aware that Alina had an open pass to the Autobots' headquarters … he just didn't realize how exclusive it was until now. There were photos of the giant robotic creatures smiling and posing, flashing thumbs' up or peace signs at the camera; several of an older man, an older teenager who seemed to be the man's son, and a blonde girl; Alina perched between two metallic perversions of Earth animals – a lion and rhinoceros. _So many photos_.

Frowning slightly, Nathan flipped more pages. There was a grouping of six slightly dirty Polaroids on the next panel. In a sprawling scrawl, Alina had written the words: _Took awesome photos, but dirty intentions._ In these, she was so small, seated against the towering, lithe frame of a white and blue robot, leaning against its side.

Looking up, he saw a framed photograph that he'd passed over perched atop the TV. Setting the album down, Nathan peered and saw the same robot with Alina on its shoulder. She was wearing shorts and a thin tank top; one arm was hidden from sight, probably wrapped around the robot's head, the other rested on the alien's armored shoulder. There was a smile unlike any he'd seen on the woman all night: happiness, brightness; the robot seemed to reflect it, lips slightly pulled back from slab-like "teeth", glassy "eyes" wide. A bright red and purple flower was tucked into pulled-back raven hair; Alina leaned against the creature's blue helm with a sense of proprietary.

The sound of unshod feet on carpet brought his attention back to the real world. Alina stood in the hallway, cat at her ankles, a bright blue-green robe wrapped around her shoulders. Baggy grey flannel cuffs could be seen peeking underneath the hem.

"Who's this?" he asked, trying to sound conversational, but his usual charm and affability was lost.

Her blue eyes flickered from photo to his face. "Mirage," she replied simply.

"That's its name?"

"_His_." Deftly, she plucked the photo from his unresisting grip and put it back upon the TV. She turned around. "I'm sorry, I should have offered you something to drink, but I didn't realize how late it was. I had a wonderful time, but I have to get up early tomorrow morning."

Prickly jealousy wormed into Nathan's heart. He wasn't used to the brush-off. Women almost always offered a drink, then their bed. "To see _him_?"

Alina colored and wove her fingers into the collar of her robe. Sinew stood out along the tanned arm. "To do my _job_," she replied quietly, firmly. "I don't live here on handouts. I'll see you to the door."

And so she did; watched the Mustang fade into the dark and wished that Mirage had been there to blow a few tires.

OoOoOoOoOo

Dice rattled and rolled across the plush green velvet. Cigar smoke floated above their heads, pooled like ghostly haloes. Nathan quaffed the Coors and reached for another in the cooler under the craps table.

"So, she shot ya down."

"For a _robot_."

Jerry's beer-blazed eyes widened. "Really? No shit." He took a drag on his joint and exhaled slowly. Across the table, Tom and Maynard puffed on their Cubans, disinterested in the conversation. Nathan's butler walked by, eyes watering at the edges but saying nothing; he merely picked up the empty bottles and added more to the cooler. And then he was gone, as quietly as he had appeared.

Nathan stretched out and fetched the dice. Setting coin on the table, he rolled: 4 and 7. With a curse, he slammed the beer bottle down. "Yeah. She saw me with a picture of one of them and shut the night down. Damned Tinker-Toys."

Jerry grinned. "Some girls are kinky, man. You should know that."

"Kinky, sure, but who'd fuck a giant robot?"

Jerry merely laughed, tokin' on his joint. "I'd pay to see that."

Grunting, Nathan threw the dice once more. Jerry leaned over and prodded him with an elbow. "C'mon, man, she sounds like a cool chick."

"Naw. I think I'll look elsewhere."

Smoke curled around his friend's wey-face. Thoughtfully, Jerry stroked his beard. "Then you wouldn't mind if I moved in?"

Nathan shrugged and threw the dice.

* * *

Armor slammed against armor as the two Autobots collided. Optimus Prime dug his huge blue feet into the hard surface of the basketball court and threw his shoulder into Grimlock's. The Dinobot warrior grunted then laughed. With an easy flick, he caught the Cybertronian-sized ball and casually tossed it into the hoop behind him.

"Wrong one, Grimmy!" Sideswipe called out irritably, hands on his hips. "We have _that_ hoop."

The huge red visor shifted into a dangerous slope. "Me, Grimlock, no care about which one. Hoop is hoop."

Optimus rubbed his shoulder and chuckled low. "Not in this game I'm afraid, my friend. Remember, we have two teams. My side has this hoop to score in, yours has the other."

Slowly, Grimlock shook his head. "Rules, rules … all the time, rules. Me, Grimlock score more without stupid rules." He reached down and grabbed the ball from where it had rolled against the titanium post. "Fine, then, Opt-imus Prime. Keep Grimlock from scoring."

Alina grinned, rocking back. Behind her, playing backrest, the golden Lion Steeljaw shifted. "Rather boring, is it not?" he observed dryly.

"No, I don't think so. I think it's funny."

"Better time spent in training, than games."

Pulling wind-ruffled hair from her face, Alina wound it into a crude ponytail. "But what if you consider this training?"

"How so?"

Idly, she reached around and scratched behind the mechanoid Lion's right "ear". A pale golden optic rolled in her direction, brow ridge raised, then lowered. Steeljaw was a cat, for all he tried to be philosophical; the deep rumble of a Cybertronian purr filled Alina's ears. "Well, you're working on teamwork, speed, agility. There's also problem solving and a bit of logic."

Steeljaw's muzzle dropped in a low, feline smile. "I see. Well, regardless, I'm rather bored. Walk with me?"

The Cassettebot was newly come to the team, one of four "tapes" built to contend with Soundwave's crew. Attitudes towards Steeljaw, his rhino companion Ramhorn and the two Frenzy and Rumble counterparts, Rewind and Eject, were slowly warming. Alina liked them for their comparative sizes, not to mention the fact that Steeljaw and Ramhorn were "animals" who could talk. It was fairly whimsical, until you saw the deadly guns on Steeljaw's hips and Ramhorn's flanks.

Alina glanced down to the intense basketball game, noted the pock-marks on the field, and decided that it was better if she left before the ball got out of hand and branded her soft skin. "Sure."

Steeljaw rose and stretched, taking off along the outer rim of the field. Alina followed, shambling up the shale slope that separated the Ark's front door from the backyard. The Lion had little by way of commentary, so their walk was mostly in silence. She paced at his right side as they ambled down the long and winding rock road that connected the Ark to Central City's major highway. Several times, the golden metallic Lion paused, scenting the air with sophisticated sensors; at these points, Alina reflexively put her hand on his broad shoulder, glancing for Decepticon purple. Each time, Steeljaw snorted, shook his head and continued on, not bothering to explain his concerns.

It was at the road's entrance that Steeljaw left her. They were about to make a circuit when the Lion's head came up. "Stay here," he growled, nosing her to the side where a large cairn of rocks holding the Ark's "no admittance" signs stood.

"Steel …" But he was gone, loping with a grace that belayed his bulldog-built body. She watched him run, golden metal muted in the waning light. With a sigh, she nudged a smallish boulder over to the cairn and sat down, alternately scanning the skies, the road and the rocks beyond.

The highway, once well-traveled, had seen a cut in traffic over the past few years due to the Autobot presence. No one wanted to drive by and have their car cut in half by errant laser fire – or flattened by careless Dinobot feet. Thus, Alina was surprised to see the sleek blue Corvette put on its blinker and pull over. "Tracks …?" _No, stupid – no wings, no decals._

The man who slipped out was brown-haired and bearded – closely cropped to his sculpted jaw. Puffs of smoke filtered out after him, ringing his head like a halo. By chance, the wind blew and Alina caught the scent of marijuana. She'd done a little before college during her somewhat rebellious teen years, so she was fairly certain it wasn't a cigar. "Can I … help you?" she asked, looking for Steeljaw. The Lion was nowhere to be found. Cursing under her breath, Alina swept the newcomer up and down, looking for signs of danger. He was nothing if not handsome – and stoned.

"You Alina?"

Too stunned to answer, she began to slowly rise, wishing and praying that the metal Lion had only gone chasing after a ghost. The man marked her edginess. "I've been driving all around town, lookin' for ya. I'm Jerry – Nate's friend."

Apparently that made things all the better. Alina was smarter than that. She shook her head and began to walk backwards up the path. _Where are Red Alert's cameras?_ she wondered in the hurricane that was her thoughts. "Steeljaw?" she called out, following it up with a whistle.

Jerry took a step towards her. "Is that his name? Nate said you had an Autobot friend." He grinned lasciviously. "Why waste your time with robots? What do they got that a real man doesn't?"

That did it. Breaking, Alina turned and ran, screaming Steeljaw's name at the top of her lungs. Jerry, despite his state, was faster. She was plowed into the rocky path; heavy breath scented with weed gushing over her bleeding cheek. "STEELJAW! STEEL– !"

Jerry grabbed her wrists, jerking them behind her back. "I bet you can't be satisfied by a two-ton metal dick. Lemme show you a real one." Something thick was wound around her wrists, biting into flesh. Using the heel of one hand in the middle of her back to keep her down, Jerry reached for her jeans.

A savage roar split the twilight. Fear-sweat coursing down her brow and trickling into fresh scrapes, Alina looked up through black bangs to see Steeljaw bounding over a rocky outcropping. He was in full roar, a sound that shook her to her soul. The Autobot Cassette leapt, landing within feet of her precarious position; trylithium claws winked in the fading sun. On her back, Jerry trembled, scrabbled upright – and was promptly knocked over by Steeljaw's voice.

Alina wasted no time in flipping over, her hands still bound. The Lion walked stiff-legged towards her attacker, who lay sprawled on his back, a wet stain spreading across his pants and the rock. Steeljaw roared again. Jerry went completely white and fell over in a dead faint.

"Steel …"

The golden mechanoid Lion shook his head, triumphant. For a split second, metal was overlaid by flesh and fur – a full black and gold mane flew about the Autobot's shoulders. It was gone almost as quickly as it had flashed into her head. "Steel … jaw." Panting, Alina struggled upright, pain in her legs and arms. So close … so close …

Steeljaw made as if to paw at Jerry's unconscious body but thought better. He turned stiffly and walked over to where she sat. Without comment, he bent his head towards her wrists and deftly snapped the cables free. Alina shook them from her flesh as if they were snakes, kicking them with her feet. "It was his scent I smelled," Steeljaw finally said as he offered his shoulder. "It coursed over the roadway, layer upon layer."

Alina blinked. "He said … he was canvassing for me."

"Not anymore." Steeljaw spoke with such wisdom and finality, Alina had no reason to doubt it the truth. With the Lion at her side, she walked back to the Ark – to Ratchet's tender mercies and Red Alert's apoplexies.

OoOoOoOoOo

A week later, Alina walked into Ratchet's medbay, a book bag slung over one shoulder. Her gate was still a little stiff, her wrists nearly healed; the cuts on her cheek and chin were scabbed over, aided in the healing process by some Wheeljack-created, Ratchet-approved gel. Mirage saw her coming and shifted upon the recovery bed. His white and blue armor bore burn marks; holes had been dug out of shoulders and legs, smoke stains spread over his seamless light blue facial planes. He, along with several others, had been patrolling an experimental air base in New Mexico. The Ligier's new paint job was courtesy of a Decepticon-slung F-15 jet aimed at Bumblebee.

Astoria had called her several times over the past week, apologizing profusely for what had happened. She even cut ties with Jerry's father's company for the son's transgressions. It was extreme, but a pure Astoria reaction. Jerry himself was in rehab – and in a psych ward. He confessed everything to the police before he was sentenced.

As she walked closer, she saw his frown. "Are you all right?" he rumbled in that cultured baritone as she made her way up the stairs set against the bed's side. He lay back down, propping one wrapped arm behind his head. His optics never left her face.

She smiled softly, trying to play down her physical appearance, and settled herself on his chestplate, propping her back on his thigh. "You're more worse for wear. I hear you caught a jet."

"Yes, well. So I did."

He was being very modest – either that, or he rather would have her tell her what happened. It wasn't a story she wanted to tell, not now – even to him. "Alina."

Black hair fell from her face as she looked up from rifling through her book bag. "Yes?"

"What happened." There was no scent of query in his vocalizer. He looked at her from behind blue glass optics, lip components set in a thin line.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said at last, pulling out two books. "Austin or Bronte?"

With his free right hand, he pushed them downwards, gently. "Answer me."

A knot worked into her belly; she avoided eye contact. "I'm sure someone told you."

"Hound," he conceded. "He told me that some overcharged male attacked you at the entrance to the base. Neither Ratchet nor that creature, Steeljaw, would say any more."

_Privacy. What a novel concept_, she thought wryly. "I don't want to talk about it." She sighed, slowly shaking her head. He would never understand.

"Alina." He touched her cheek – the unscathed right one.

"Men think that I'm an anathema … because I work with the Autobots. They seem to think they have to prove their manhood." There, she said it.

"He tried to force you."

"Steeljaw stopped him."

Mirage rumbled; she felt the vibration in his chest through her bottom. "Humans," he hissed. "Humans!"

"Mirage," she whispered quietly. He lifted his chin, the black smoke streaks giving him a roguish look. "Austin, Bronte, T.S. Elliot …?"

For a moment, he frowned. Then he settled back, head propped by his arm. "Pick something."

"Okay." And she dug into her bag, pulling out Achebe's _Things Fall Apart_. _How _apropos … Flipping to the first page, she settled herself against his leg and began to read, knowing in her heart that men would never be for her. Not when she had him.


	9. We Have a Communication Problem

**We Have a Communication Problem  
**_Circa 2080AD_

The shuttle flight was fairly uneventful, baring the fact that they were flying through a war-zone. Having been assured that the pilot was one of the best, Solarflare nonetheless prepared herself for a deep-space evacuation. She vented a sigh of relief once she was escorted off the shuttle onto the landing platform of Base Camp Phoenix, located in deep in the Delta-quadrant. It was here, on the far reaches of known space that the Autobots had chased their Decepticon foes.

Foul smells wafted off the tarmac, dark brown plumes ejecting into the air under the hulls of the ships. If they were going for the "crappy, under-manned base" look, well they nailed it spectacularly, the femme noted, stilling her intake as she passed by.

Flare forced herself through the press of repair crew, noting the long looks aimed at her appearance. Well, let them look; as long as she got to her destination, they could gawk at her wings all they wanted. The base camp was a hodge-podge of buildings and armaments, all thrown together with no sense of aesthetics. It wasn't as if they were planning on making this outpost permanent. _But, if the Cons stay out there_, Flare mused, grunting as a sharp elbow joint nailed her in a sensitive torso-joint, _then they'll _have_ to make it permanent_. Maybe that was why Optimus Prime was here, the femme thought stumbling to a halt outside the base headquarters.

"Who are you?" a deep mech voice rumbled curiously.

Flare smoothed her pinions from their bated position and slowly turned around. It was going to be one of _those_ encounters. A dark grey and blue mech taller than she stood behind her. "Chief Comm Officer Solarflare of Autobot City to see Optimus Prime," she replied smoothly, fishing her ID card from her right hip carrier and handing it over.

The mech didn't bother taking her card; he barely bothered to even look at it, hanging there from her taloned hand. "Prime isn't here," he told her tersely.

Yes, it would be one of those encounters, she decided. "He is indeed …" She inclined her head towards the mech, inviting him to give his name.

"Base Commander Frontline."

" … Base Commander," Solarflare continued as smoothly as she could, giving him a salute proper for his rank. The mech barely shuttered his optics. "They don't let me off-base, let alone off-planet for no reason, sir." She smiled winningly. _Arrogant skidplate. I hope that title rusts out your boron compressor._

Frontline frowned. "Again, you are mistaken, soldier. Prime hasn't been here in solar cycles."

Not of her own volition, black steel pinions came up and framed her body, the plasma-tempered feathers rattling in response to her inner irritation. _Solider_! Ire rose in her synthetic veins, only to instantly cool as a familiar figure appeared without a sound from around a corner. "Then why, sir, is he standing behind you?"

Optimus Prime was as tall and commanding a presence as when Solarflare last saw him. His deep blue optics met hers and she threw him an elegant salute. The supreme Autobot commander patted Frontline on his shoulder strut. "Thank you for meeting Solarflare, Frontline. Please escort the comm officer to my quarters; I will be along shortly."

"Of course, sir." Frontline was all business now and saluted, turning to Flare. "This way." He made no attempt to see if she was following, and the femme decided he was upset at being tactfully admonished in front of a "soldier". She'd had her fair share of public reprimands, but most of those were in her early Ark days, and only a few once they'd transferred to Autobot City. He'd get over it. "Tell me, Comm Officer, how is it that you knew that Prime was here? No one outside of the upper echelon was told of his trip."

Flippancy was out of the question, so Flare kept her game face on. Too bad – the mech looked like he needed to lighten up a bit. "It's the nature of my job, sir. I also happened to be the one who intercepted the deep-space message. Optimus wanted to hear it from me personally." Which surprised the living Energon out of her, truth be told.

They passed a massive refuse pile, stocked high with old compressors and barrels of digested fluids. Reflexively, Flare covered her nasal slits; Frontline's lip components curled in what could be termed an amused smirk. "Not what you're used to, huh?"

"No, sir."

Frontline nodded. "And what would the nature of the message be?"

Flare lowered her hand and fixed the commander with a small smile. "That would be confidential, sir." _Nice try, though._

"Obviously it has to do with this outpost, otherwise you wouldn't have been sent here."

_Sneaky S-O-B_, she mused. _But does he really think I'm going to give in so easily?_ "I'm not at liberty to say, commander." She faced him squarely, the tines of her helm upright.

The blue and grey mech studied her for a click, then nodded. "All right, comm officer. You win. Here is Prime's office. Have a pleasant stay." He pointed towards a non-descript shack – there could be no other term – and immediately walked away.

_Some commander_, Flare snorted and set both hands to the rusted iron door. _Did they find him in the scrapyard?_ The inside of the hovel was better-decorated than the outside – outfitted with the latest units. A small table with a larger chair sat squarely in the middle. What looked to be the Cybertronian equivalent of a curb-side couch was shoved to one side. It was definitely Optimus' office – there was the same stack of data pads and charts strewn over the table and papered on the walls as there had been in his old office back in the City.

Flare took up residence on the couch, wincing when several rivets dug into the spaces between her upper thigh and hip plates. She shifted to the far corner and perched, hands folded over her knee spikes. She didn't have to wait long; the door swung open on rusty hinges and Optimus Prime – ducking – entered. He closed the door with his shoulder and turned to face her, brow ridges canted upwards while he shook his head. "Not the City, but they haven't had enough time to properly outfit the post. Still, it is shielded." He walked over to the table and sat down, folding his hands over the top. "Your message was very cryptic, Solarflare."

She flashed him a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, sir. But I consulted with Mirage, Trailbreaker _and_ Ultra Magnus and they all decided that it was for the best." She stood up and crossed to the nearest comm unit. "If you could load my first message?"

Optimus turned in his chair and wheeled up beside her. While he called up the message, Flare pulled a plate from the side of her neck and extracted a thin cord. Once the message was on-screen, she inserted her cord into the comm's data-port; the jolt of connection rocked her, briefly disorienting her system. Codes embedded deep into her core consciousness unlocked, one by one, in the presence of their complementary components. The flow of information implanted into her cortex streamed away like blood, leaving her drained at the end of the transmission. Breaking the connection, Flare stumbled away from the comm unit before collapsing on the couch. There, she sat with her head between her hands, the cord dangling from her neck like a limp fish.

Time flowed around her as if she were a rock in the middle of the river – present, but unmoving. After an undetermined moment, a hand touched her shoulder strut. Slowly, Flare lifted her head; a pair of deep blue optics were inches from her nasal ridge. "Are you all right?"

Gently, Flare touched the side of her head. "Y-es, sir. I've never done anything like that before. I wasn't prepared." The hand didn't move and the optics continued to stare into her very spark.

"Yet, very brave."

"It's … my duty, Optimus. That … and I didn't trust anyone else with the information."

The mask lifted in a version of a smile. "I knew I made the correct choice when I assigned you to communications, Solarflare. These figures confirm my assumptions that Galvatron is assembling a force greater than we anticipated in this sector." He paused. Flare took that moment to stuff the embarrassing cord back into her neck. "What I did not believe was that he would be leading it himself." Prime rose and crossed over to the table. "I need you on the next shuttle back to the City, Solarflare. Take this disk and give it to Mirage and Trailbreaker. But, before you go, I need you to set up a tight beam to Magnus for me."

With her cortex cleared and equilibrium back to normal, Flare shot to her feet. She took the thin, plascard-like disk and slid it into subspace. "I'll need the codes, Prime," she said, taking position by the comm unit.

"Magna-Heaven-Alpha-Baker 1826, priority Red."

Nodding, the grey femme set the sequence into motion, bouncing the signal off of the lone satellite, masking it as an errant transmission. She typed as Optimus dictated and sent it out into space. It was picked up several clicks later by Cybertron computers and verified. When she turned around to confirm the sending, Frontline was in the room, being briefed by Optimus Prime. "… a shuttle for Solarflare prepped and ready to go," the huge supreme commander was ordering. "All personnel on high alert. The attack will not come from the front, but _appear_ to."

Frontline nodded. "Aye, sir." He snapped a salute and all but bolted from the room. Prime sighed and made as if to collapse in his chair. Yet, he remained standing. Wide-optic'd, Flare remained with her hand on the console, the other rising to touch his shoulder. But she couldn't. It wouldn't be proper … Those days were gone.

"Has it been sent, Solarflare?"

"Aye, sir."

His back stayed away from her. "Make for the shuttle, now, Solarflare. Magnus should be preparing the armament shipments as we speak. You will have to be back at the City to deal with all the cruisers coming in."

"Aye, sir." It was a dismissal, and she was long-accustomed to them. She stepped away from the console and started walking towards the door. _No …_ She stopped and spun on her heel. Optimus looked up from his charts, unfathomable thoughts in his optics. Last time, there had been no good-byes. Swiftly, she touched his arm. "Good luck, Optimus." And sprinted for the door, leaving her commander and friend to his plans.


End file.
